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THE  ATLANTIC  SOUVENIR. 


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THE 


ATLANTIC   SOUVENIR, 


itb  Ql^h3tIJ)J  ^Usant  portraits  on  StttI,  from  (Sn'flinal  ^uturts. 


NEW   YORK: 
DEEBY  &  JACKSOi^,  119  NASSAU  STREET. 

1859. 


W.  II.  TIVSON,  STKREOTYPER, 


acuRQE  Ryssni-L  a  IM.,  nU.VTERS, 

(I  BMkmu  SlTMU 


PREFACE. 


The  Atlantic  Souvenir  is  a  compilation  of  several  of  tlie 
contributions  to  the  Knickerbocker  Gallery,  a  work  intended 
as  a  graceful  and  appropriate  tribute  to  the  editor  of  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  by  his  friends  and  correspondents. 
It  was  believed  that  the  larger  book  would  realize  from  its 
sale,  a  sufficient  sum  to  purchase  a  cottage  for  the  veteran 
editor,  but  owing  to  the  great  expense  incurred  in  getting  it 
up,  of  engraving  and  letter-press,  although  the  sale  was  large, 
yet  the  proceeds  were  sufficient  only  to  cover  the  expenses  of 
publication.  The  present  volume,  embracing  some  of  the  best 
and  most  popular  features  of  the  Gallery,  is  intended  to  aid  in 
effecting  the  object  originally  contemplated.  Its  price  places 
it  within  the  reach  of  persons  of  moderate  means,  while  its 
fine  engravings  are  such  as  are  far  beyond  the  illustrations 
usually  exhibited,  except  in  the  most  costly  editions  of  gift 
books.  Perhaps  a  better  idea  of  the  intention  of  this  new 
edition  will  be  given  by  quoting  the  language  of  the  original 
preface. 

"The  popular  actor  on  the  stage  receives  from  the  public 
substantial  '  benefits,'  and  the  painter  or  sculptor  whose  pro- 
ductions have  been  more  celebrated  than  profitable,  not  unfre- 
quently  collects  them  in  an  exhibition  which  the  lovers  of  art 


M168104 


PREFACE. 


gladly  support  for  liis  sake  as  well  as  for  its  attractive  merits ; 
but  the  editor  has  no  such  resort,  as  a  test  of  the  popular  good- 
will for  liini,  nor  any  extraordinary  means  of  making  up  the 
deficits  of  a  season  in  which  what  the  world  owes  him  has  been 
withheld. 

"  It  seemed  appropriate,  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Louis  Gatlord 
Clakk,  to  disregard  precedents  of  neglect,  and  to  offer  him  a 
testimonial  of  the  esteem  in  which  he  is  held  by  his  coUabora- 
Uurs  that  should  be  both  pleasing  as  a  compliment  and  valuable 
as  a  contribution  to  his  means  of  happiness.  It  was  proposed 
that  the  surviving  writers  for  the  Knickerbocker  should  each 
furnish,  gratuitously,  an  article,  and  that  the  collection  should 
be  issued  in  a  volume  of  tasteful  elegance,  of  which  the  entire 
avails  should  be  appropriated  in  building,  on  the  margin  of 
the  Hudson,  a  cottage,  suitable  for  the  home  of  a  man  of 
letters,  who,  like  Mr.  Clakk,  is  also  a  lover  of  nature  and  of 
rural  life. 

"  Tlie  editorial  preparation  of  this  volume  was  undertaken 
by  John  W.  Francis,  Georgp:  P.  Morris,  Kufus  W.  Griswold, 
EicHARD  B.  Kimball,  and  Frederick  W.  Siieltox  ;  their  circu- 
lar to  the  old  contributors  of  the  Magazine  was  met,  in  all  cases, 
by  a  ready  and  generous  response ;  and  they  submit  the  result 
in  confidence  that  a  literary  miscellany  of  its  kind  has  rarely, 
if  ever,  been  published  of  which  the  contents  are  more  various 
or  uniformly  excellent." 

New  .York,  1859. 


CONTENTS. 


PAoa 
THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ICE-KING.    By  Donald  G.  Mitchell,         .        .      n 

THE  SNOW  SHOWER.    By  William  Cullen  Bryant,    ....      81 

CONVERSATIONS  WITH  TALMA.    By  Washington  Irving,  ...      33 

A  VISION  OF  THE  HOUSATONIC.    By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,      .      41 

EIGHTEEN  YEARS:    A  REMINISCENCE  OF  KENTUCKY.     By  Samuel 

Osgood 45 

ANTIQUE  DIRGE.     By  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  ;.        .      •  .        .        .55 

A  SERENADE.    By  Richard  Henry  Stoddard, 66 

ON  LAKE  PEPIN.     By  Epes  Sargent, 57 

A  DAY  AT  ST.  HELENA.    By  Bayard  Taylor, Y5 

A  TROPICAL  VOYAGE.    By  Park  Benjamin, 87 

GENTLE  DOVE:   AN  INDIAN  LEGEND.     By  Frederick  W.  Shelton,  91 

THE  DEATH  OF  ULRIC.    By  Theodore  S.  Fay, 109 

CAPT.  BELGRAVE.     By  Frederick  S.  Cozzens, II7 

THE    WEDDING-TRIP    OF    JARL    ALVAR    RAFN.     By  Charles  G. 

Leland, 141 

PISECO:   A  SKETCH.    By  George  W.  Bethune, 147 

POETICAL  EPISTLE   TO   LOUIS   GAYLORD   CLARK,  ESQ.      By  Fitz- 

Greene  Halleck, 161 

REMINISCENCES  OF  CHRISTOPHER  COLLES.    By  John  W.  Francis,  165 

TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  GIRL.     By  George  D.  Prentice 185 

ANTEROS:    A  LIFE  WITH  ONE  PASSION.     By  Donald  MacLeod,       .  187 
THE  BURIAL  AT  MARSHFIELD.    By  R.  S.  Chilton,    .        .        .        .197 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

PASS 

LITERARY  MARTYRDOM.     By  Charles  F.  Briggs,        .         .        .        .199 

TREES.     Br  Alfred  B.  Street, 211 

DIRGE,  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  LITTLE  FREDDY.  By  U.  W.  Rockwell,  219 
THE  SATANIC  IN  LITERATURE.  By  Samuel  S.  Cox,.  .  .  .221 
JEANNIE  MARSH  OF  CHERRY  VALLEY.  By  George  P.  Morris,  .  243 
THE  SUN-DIAL  OF  ISELLA.  By  Richard  B.  Kimball,  .  .  .245 
THE  EMTEROR'S  BIRD'S  NEST.     By  Henry  Wapsworth  Longfellow,     255 

TRADITIONS  OF  THE  NATCHEZ.     By  T.  B.  Thorpe 257 

I'M  GROWING  OLD.    By  John  G.  Saxe, 263 

EDMUND  KEAN.     By  Henry  Theodore  Tcckerman 265 

BARNET.     By  Charles  G.  Eastman, 278 

A  DUTCH  BELLE.    By  P.  Hamilton  Myers, 277 


LIST  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 


PAoa 

Donald  G.  Mitchell.    (Ik  Marvel,) 11 

William  Cullen  Bryant, 31 

Washington  Irting.    From  a  bust  by  Ball  Hughes,       ....  33 

Oliter  Wendell  Holmes, 41 

Bayard  Taylor,  76 

Frederick  William  Shelton, 91 

Theodore  S.  Fay, 109 

Frederick  S.  Cozzens.    (Richard  Haywarde,) 117 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck, 161 

George  D.  Prentice, 185 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 255 

John  G.  Saxe, 263 


'  '  '-'-u^ 


^2W^<^^/^-^&i^ 


f  (re  Itik  0f  i\t  |a-f  ittg. 


BY  DONALD    O.   MITCHKLU 

There  is  not  a  prettier  valley  in  Switzerland  than  that  of  Lauter 
brunnen.  Whoever  has  seen  it  upon  a  fine  day  of  summer,  when  the 
meadows  were  green,  the  streams  full,  and  the  sun  shining  upon  the 
crystal  glaciers  which  lie,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  year, 
at  the  head  of  the  valley,  can  never  forget  it. 

I  do  not  think  it  can  be  more  than  a  half-mile  broad ;  and  in  man}' 
places,  I  am  sure,  it  is  much  less.  On  one  side,  the  rocks,  brown  and 
jagged,  and  tufted  with  straggling  shrubs,  rise  almost  perpendicu- 
larly ;  and  a  stream  of  water  which  comes  from  higher  slopes,  far  out 
of  sight,  leaps  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  At  first,  it  is  a  solid 
column  of  water ;  then  it  breaks  and  spreads  and  wavers  with  the 
wind ;  and  finally,  in  a  rich  white  veil  of  spray,  reaches  the  surface  of 
the  vale  of  Lauterbrunnen,  a  thousand  feet  below.  They  call  it  the 
Dust-Fall. 

The  opposite  side  of  the  valley  does  not  change  so  suddenly  into 
mountain.  There  are  slopes,  green  or  yellow,  as  the  seasons  may  be, 
with  the  little  harvests  which  the  mountain-people  raise ;  there  are 
cliffs  with  wide  niches  in  them,  where  you  may  see  kids  or  sheep 
cropping  the  short  herbage  which  grows  in  the  shadow  of  the  rocks ; 
and  there  is  a  path,  zig-zagging  up  from  the  road  below,  I  scarce  know 
how.  It  would  be  very  tiresome,  were  it  not  for  the  views  it  gives 
you  at  every  turning.  Sometimes,  from  under  a  thicket  of  trees,  you 
look  sheer  down  upon  the  little  bridge  you  have  traversed  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  valley ;  seeming  so  near,  that  you  could  toss  your  Alpin- 
stock  into  the  brook.     Sometimes  the  green  of  the  meadow,  and  the 


12  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

si>arkle  of  its  stream  are  shut  out ;  and  you  look  straight  across  upon 
the  Dust-Fall,  where  it  leaps  from  the  clifT  abreast  of  you;  and  see  it 
shiver,  and  grow  white,  and  hear  it  afterward  go  murmuring  away 
through  its  valley-bed. 

At  other  times,  as  you  pass  farther  up,  the  waterfall  seems  only  a 
bit  of  gauze,  which  is  lost  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff;  and  the  heights 
above,  from  which  the  stream  comes,  break  into  sight  and  tower 
aloft  in  a  way  that  quite  dwarfs  the  poor  valley  beneath,  and  makes 
it  seem  a  mere  nook  in  the  hills. 

But  by  far  the  grandest  sight  of  all  those  which  belong  to  this 
mountain  neighborhood,  is  that  of  the  glacier  which  shuts  up  the  head 
of  the  valley.  It  is  not,  indeed,  larger  or  whiter  than  many  others  of 
Switzerland ;  but  like  the  crown  of  a  monarch,  its  green,  lustrous 
crystals  rise  over  the  forehead  of  Lauterbrunnen,  and  charm  you  by 
such  contrast  of  the  fierce  glory  of  winter,  with  the  soft  smile  of  sum- 
mer, as  can  be  seen  nowhere  else. 

My  first  visit  to  this  spot,  many  years  ago,  was  on  a  midsummer's 
afternoon.  The  mountains  were  clear  of  clouds ;  and  their  snow-tops, 
and  the  green  spurs  of  the  glacier  in  the  distance,  seemed  to  wear  the 
same  warm  glow  of  sunlight  which  fell  upon  the  slopes  around  me, 
and  upon  the  meadows  beneath.  I  could  see  the  brook  ti'aliing  white 
in  the  bed  of  the  valley ;  and  the  Dust-Fall  gushing  from  the  cliff  into 
feathery,  cloud-like  vapor ;  and  the  peasants  in  the  meadows,  gather- 
ing their  July  crop  of  hay  —  yet  so  far  below  me,  that  no  murmur  of 
their  toil  came  to  my  ear ;  but,  in  place  of  it,  a  mountain  girl,  from 
a  cottage  upon  the  heights,  was  singing,  in  the  hope  of  a  few  pennies, 
a  plaintive  Swiss  song,  which  floated  pleasantly  on  the  air,  and 
mingled  gracefully  with  the  tinkle  of  the  scattered  bells,  which  the 
kids  wore  upon  the  cliffs  above.  Except  these  sounds,  a  silence 
haunted  the  whole  region.  As  I  lay  under  the  shadow  of  a  broad- 
liinbcd  walnut,  whose  leaves  scarce  stirred  in  the  summer  air,  the 
song,  and  the  tinkle  of  the  bells,  and  the  glow  of  light  upon  the  dis 
tant  snow-cliffs,  and  the  delicious  haze  that  lingered  over  the  Arcadian 
valley  beneath  me,  seemed  to  belong  earli  to  each,  and  to  make  up 
a  scene  in  which  a  life-time  might  be  dreamed  away,  without  a 
thought  of  labor  or  of  duty. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    THE    ICE-KING.  13 

It  was  different  when  I  went  there  last.  It  was  not  in  summer, 
but  in  autumn.  The  green  of  the  meadows  had  given  place  to  the 
brown  tint  which  betokens  the  coming-on  of  winter.  The  trees  on  the 
slopes,  as  I  toiled  up  the  ascent  toward  the  Wengern-Alp,  were 
stripped  of  half  their  leaves ;  and  the  yellow  and  tattered  remnants 
were  sighing  in  a  cool  wind  of  October.  The  clouds  hung  low,  and 
dashed  fitfully  across  the  heights.  From  hour  to  hour,  great  frag 
ments  of  the  glacier,  loosened  by  the  heavy  rains  of  the  previous 
night,  fell  thundering  into  distant  mountain  abysses.  No  sunlight 
rested  upon  the  valley  or  upon  the  ice. 

It  hardly  seemed  to  me  the  same  spot  of  country  which  had  so 
caught  my  fancy,  and  bewildered  me  with  its  quiet  beauty  years 
before.  And  yet  there  was  a  sublimity  hanging  about  the  landscape 
and  the  sky  of  which  I  had  no  sense  on  the  former  visit.  At  that 
time,  the  mountains,  and  the  air,  and  even  the  lustrous  glacier  were 
subdued  into  quiet  harmony  with  the  valley  and  the  valley-brook 
below.  Even  the  song  of  the  cottage-girl  was  an  according  sym- 
phony with  the  tone  of  nature. 

Now,  however,  the  gray  landscape,  unlighted  by  any  ray  of  sun- 
light, wore  a  sober  and  solemn  hue,  that  lifted  even  the  meadow  into 
grand  companionship  with  the  mountains  and  the  glaciers ;  and  the 
crash  of  falling  icebergs  quickened  and  gave  force  to  the  impressions 
of  awe,  which  crept  over  me  like  a  chill. 

I  began  to  understand,  for  the  first  time,  that  strange  and  savage 
reverence  which  the  peasants  feel  for  their  mountains.  And  as  the 
thunder  of  the  falling  glaciers  echoed  among  the  peaks,  I  grew  insensi- 
bly into  a  fear  of  the  great  Power  which  lived  and  reigned  in  those 
regions  of  ice.  It  seemed  to  me  that  darkness  would  be  only  needed 
to  drive  away  all  rational  estimate  of  the  strange  sounds  which 
crashed,  and  the  silence  which  brooded  among  the  sombre  cliffs.  I 
entertained,  with  a  willingness  that  almost  frighted  me,  the  old  stories 
of  ice-gods  ruling  and  thundering  among  the  glaciers. 

The  active,  practical,  reasoning  world,  with  its  throngs  and  talk, 
was  far  below.  Greater  things  were  around  me,  and  challenged  my 
fancy. 

All  the  forces  which  man  boasts  of  were  little,  compared  with 


14  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

those  which  made  their  voice  heard  among  the  difls.  It  seemed  not 
only  possible,  but  probable,  that  some  great  special  Intelligence 
reigned  over  the  giant  forces  which  stirred  around  me.  The  old 
lecends  of  ice-gods  took  shadow  and  form.  I  strode  on  to  the  little 
shelter-place,  which  lies  under  the  Jungfrau,  with  the  fearful  step  of 
one  encroaching  upon  the  domain  of  some  august  and  splendid 
monarch.  I  did  not  once  seek  to  combat  the  imaginative  humors 
which  lent  a  tone  and  a  consistency  to  this  feeling.  I  would  not,  if  I 
could,  have  resisted  the  weird  impressions  of  the  place. 

A  terrific  storm  burst  over  the  mountains,  shortly  after  I  had 
gained  shelter  in  the  little  chalet  of  the  Obcr-Alp.  The  only  company 
I  found  was  the  host,  and  a  flax-haired  German  student.  This  last 
abandoned  his  pipe  as  the  storm  rose,  and  listened  with  me  silently, 
and,  I  thought,  with  the  same  measure  of  awe,  to  the  crash  of  the  ava- 
lanches which  were  loosened  by  the  falling  torrents  of  rain. 

"  The  Ice-King  is  angry  to-night,"  said  our  host. 

I  could  not  smile  at  the  superstition  of  the  man ;  a  sense  of  awe 
was  too  strong  upon  me ;  there  was  a  feeling  born  of  the  mountain 
presence,  and  of  the  terrific  crash  of  the  glaciers,  which  forbade  my 
smiling  —  a  feeling  as  if  an  Ice-King  might  be  really  there  to  avenge  a 
slight. 

Presently  there  was  a  louder  shock  than  usual,  and  the  echoes  of 
the  report  thundered  for  several  minutes  among  the  clifTs,  The 
mountain  host  went  to  the  door,  which  looked  out  toward  the  Jung- 
frau ;  and  soon  he  called  us  hurriedly  to  sec,  as  he  called  it,  the  Maid 
of  the  Glacier. 

The  bald  wall  of  rock  we  could  sec  looming  dark  through  the  tem- 
pest, and  the  immense  caps  of  glacier,  which  lay  at  the  top.  The  host 
directed  our  attention  to  a  white  speck  halfway  up  the  face  of  the  pre- 
cipice which  appeared  to  rise  slowly  in  a  wavy  line,  and  presently  to 
disappear  over  the  edge  of  the  glacier. 

"You  saw  her?"  said  the  host  excitedly;  "you  never  see  her, 
except  after  some  terrible  avalanche." 

"What  is  it?"  said  1. 

"Wo  call  her  the  Bride  of  the  Ice-King,"  said  our  host ;  and  ho 
appealed  to  the  German  stud«;nt,  who,  I  found,  had  bi-cn  fixujiieiitly  in 


THE   BRIDK   OF   THE    ICE-KING.  15 

the  Alps,  and  was  familiar  with  all  the  legends.  And  when  we  were 
seated  again  around  the  fire,  which  the  host  had  replenished  with  a 
fagot  of  crackling  fire- wood,  the  German  re-lighted  his  pipe,  and  told 
us  this  story  of  the  Bride  of  the  Ice-King.  If  it  should  appear  tame 
in  the  reading,  beside  a  Christmas  blaze,  it  must  be  remembered,  that 
I  listened  to  it  first  in  a  storm  at  midnight,  upon  the  wild  heights  of 
the  Scheideck. 


Many,  many  years  ago,  (it  was  thus  his  story  began,)  there  lived 
upon  the  edge  of  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen  a  peasant,  who  had  a 
beautiful  daughter,  by  the  name  of  Clothilde.  Her  hair  was  golden, 
and  flowed  in  ringlets  upon  a  neck  which  would  have  rivalled  that  of 
the  fairest  statue  of  antiquity.  Her  eye  was  hazel  and  bright,  but 
with  a  pensive  air,  which,  if  the  young  herdsmen  of  the  valley  looked 
on  only  once,  they  never  forgot  in  their  lives. 

The  mother  of  Clothilde,  who  had  died  when  she  was  young,  came, 
it  was  said,  from  some  foreign  land ;  none  knew  of  her  lineage ;  and 
the  people  of  the  valley  had  learned  only  that  the  peasant,  whose  wife 
she  became,  had  found  her  lost  upon  the  mountains. 

The  peasant  was  an  honest  man,  and  mourned  for  the  mother  of 
Clothilde,  because  she  had  shared  his  labors,  and  had  lighted  plear 
santly  the  solitary  path  of  his  life.  But  Clothilde,  though  the  mother 
died  when  she  was  young,  clung  ever  tenderly  to  her  memory,  and 
persisted  always  that  she  would  find  her  again  where  her  father  had 
found  her  —  upon  the  mountains.  It  was  in  vain  they  showed  her  the 
grave  where  her  mother  lay  buried,  in  the  village  church-yard. 

"  No,  no,"  she  would  say,  "  my  mother  is  not  there ;"  and  her 
eyes  lifted  to  the  mountains. 

Yet  no  one  thought  Clothilde  was  crazed ;  not  a  maiden  of  all  the 
village  of  Lauterbrunnen  performed  better  her  household  cares  than 
the  beautiful  Clothilde.  Not  one  could  so  swiftly  ply  the  distaff;  not 
one  who  could  show  such  store  of  white  cloth,  woven  from  the  moun- 
tain flax.  She  planted  flowers  by  the  door  of  her  father's  cottage ; 
she  watched  over  all  his  comforts ;  she  joined  with  the  rest  in  the  vil 


16  THE    ATLAKTIC    80UTENIB. 

'age  balls ;  but,  unlike  all  the  maidens  of  the  village,  she  would  accept 
no  lover. 

There  were  those  who  said  that  her  smiles  were  all  cold  smiles, 
and  that  her  heart  was  icy.  But  these  were  disappointed  ones ;  and 
had  never  known  of  the  tears  she  shed  when  she  thought  of  her  mother, 
who  was  gone. 

The  father,  plain  peasant  that  he  was,  mourned  in  his  heart  when 
he  thought  how  Clothilde  was  the  only  maiden  of  the  village  who  had 
no  lover ;  and  he  feared  greatly,  as  the  years  flow  swiftly  over  him, 
for  the  days  that  were  to  come,  when  Clothilde  would  have  none  to 
watch  over  her,  and  none  to  share  her  cottage  home. 

But  the  pensive-eyed  Clothilde  put  on  gaiety  when  she  found  this 
mood  creeping  over  her  father's  thought,  and  cheered  him  with  the 
light  songs  she  had  learned  from  the  village  girls. 

Yet  her  heart  was  not  in  the  light  songs ;  for  she  loved  to  revel  in 
the  wild  and  mysterious  tales  belonging  to  the  mountain  life.  Deeper 
'things,  and  things  more  dread  than  came  near  to  the  talk  or  to  the 
thought  of  the  fellow-villagers,  wakened  the  fancy  of  the  pensive-eyed 
Clothilde.  Whether  it  was  some  dreamy  memory  of  the  lost  mother, 
or  daily  companionship  with  the  mountains  and  the  glaciers,  which 
she  saw  from  her  father's  door,  certain  it  was,  that  her  thought  went 
farther  and  wider  than  the  thoughts  of  those  around  her. 

Even  the  doctrines  she  learned  from  the  humble  cur6  of  the  vil- 
lage, blended  with  the  wilder  action  of  her  fancy ;  and  though  she 
kneeled,  as  did  the  father  and  the  good  cur6,  before  the  image  at  the 
altar  of  the  village  church,  she  seemed  to  see  IIim  plainer  in  the 
mountains :  and  there  was  a  sacredness  in  the  pine  woods  upon  the 
slope  of  the  hill,  and  in  the  voice  of  the  avalanches  which  fell  in  the 
time  of  spring,  which  called  to  her  mind  a  quicker  sense  of  the  Divhie 
presence  and  pcjwer,  than  the  church  chalices  or  the  rosary. 

Now,  the  father  of  Clothilde  had  large  flocks,  for  a  village  peasant. 
Fifty  of  his  kids  fed  upon  the  herbage  which  grew  on  the  mountain 
ledges ;  and  half  a  score  of  dun  cows  came  every  night  to  his  chalet, 
from  the  pasture-grounds  which  were  watered  by  the  spray  of  the 
Dust-Fall. 

Many  of  the  young  villagers  would  have  gladly  won  Clothilde  to 


THE    BRIDE    OF    THE    ICE-KING.  17 

some  token  of  love ;  but  ever  her  quiet,  pale  face,  as  she  knelt  in  the 
village  church,  awed  them  to  silence ;  and  ever  her  gentle  manner,  as 
she  clung  to  the  arm  of  the  old  herdsman,  her  father,  made  them  vow 
new  vows  to  capture  the  village  beauty. 

In  times  of  danger,  or  in  times  when  sickness  came  to  the  chalets 
of  the  valley,  Clothilde  passed  hither  and  thither  on  errands  of  mercy ; 
and  when  storms  threatened  those  who  watched  the  kids  upon  the 
mountain  slopes,  she  sent  them  food  and  wine,  and  fresh  store  of 
blankets. 

So  the  years  passed;  and  the  maidens  said  that  Clothilde  was 
losing  the  freshness  that  belonged  to  her  young  days ;  but  these  were 
jealous  ones,  and,  like  other  maidens  than  Swiss  maidens,  knew  not 
how  to  forgive  her  who  bore  away  the  palm  of  goodness  and  of 
beauty. 

And  the  father,  growing  always  older,  grew  sadder  at  thought  of 
the  desolate  condition  which  would  soon  belong  to  his  daughter  Clo- 
thilde. 

"Who,"  said  the  old  man,  "will  take  care  of  the  flocks,  my 
daughter  1  who  will  look  after  the  dun  cows  ?  who  will  bring  the  win- 
ter's store  of  fir-wood  from  the  mountains  ?" 

Now,  Clothilde  could  answer  for  these  things ;  for  even  the  cure 
of  the  village  would  not  see  the  pretty  and  the  pious  Clothilde  left 
destitute.  But  it  pained  her  heart  to  witness  the  care  that  lay  upon 
her  father's  thought,  and  she  was  willing  to  bestow  quiet  upon  his 
parting  years.  Therefore,  on  a  day  when  she  came  back  with  the  old 
herdsman  from  a  village-wedding,  she  told  him  that  she,  too,  if  he 
wished,  would  become  a  bride. 

"And  whom  will  you  marry,  Clothilde?"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Whom  you  choose,"  said  Clothilde ;  but  she  added,  "  he  must  be 
good,  else  how  can  I  be  good  1  And  he  must  be  brave,  for  the  dan- 
gers of  the  mountain  life  are  many." 

So  the  father  and  the  village  cure  consulted  together,  while  Clo- 
thilde sang  as  before  at  her  household  cares ;  and  lingered,  as  was  her 
wont  at  evening,  by  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,  in  view  of 
the  glaciers  which  rose  in  the  front  of  the  valley. 

But  the  fether  and  the  cure  could  decide  upon  none  who  wa." 


[S  THE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEKIB. 

wholly  worthy  to  be  the  bridegroom  of  Clothildc.  The  people  of  the 
valley  were  honest,  and  not  a  young  villager  of  them  all  but  would 
have  made  for  her  a  watchful  husband,  and  cared  well  for  the  flocks 
which  belonged  to  her  father's  fold. 

In  that  day,  as  now,  village  fetes  were  held  in  every  time  of 
spring,  at  which  the  young  mountaineers  contended  with  each  other  in 
wrestling,  and  in  the  cast  of  heavy  boulder-stones,  and  in  other  moun- 
tain sports,  which  tried  their  manliness,  and  which  called  down  the 
plaudits  of  all  the  village  dames.  The  spring  and  the  spring  fetes 
were  now  approaching,  and  it  was  agreed  between  the  father  and  the 
cure,  that  where  all  were  so  brave  and  honest,  the  victor  in  the  vil- 
lage games  should  receive,  for  reward,  the  hand  of  Clothilde. 

The  villagers  were  all  eager  for  the  day  which  was  to  decide  the 
f<>rtuncs  of  their  valley  heiress.  Clothilde  herself  wore  no  cloud  upon 
her  brow ;  but  ever,  with  the  same  serene  look,  she  busied  her  hands 
with  her  old  house-cares,  and  sang  the  songs  which  cheered  her  old 
father's  heart. 

The  youth  of  the  village  —  they  were  mostly  the  weaker  ones  — 
eyed  her  askance,  and  said,  "  She  can  have  no  heart  worth  the  win- 
ning, who  is  won  only  by  a  stout  arm."  And  others  said  still,  "  She 
is  icy  cold,  and  can  have  no  heart  at  all." 

But  the  good  cure  said,  "  Nay ;"  and  many  a  one  from  sick-beds 
called  down  blessings  on  her. 

There  were  mothers,  too,  of  the  village,  thinking,  perhaps,  as 
mothers  will,  of  the  fifty  kids  and  of  the  half-score  of  dun  cows,  which 
would  make  her  dowry,  who  said,  with  a  wise  shake  of  the  head, 
"  She  who  is  so  good  a  daughter  will  make  also  a  good  wife." 

Among  those  who  would  gladly,  long  ago,  have  sought  Clothilde 
in  marriage,  was  a  young  villager  of  Lauterbrunnen,  whose  name  was 
Conrad  Friedland. 

lie  was  a  hunter  as  well  as  a  herdsman,  and  he  knew  the  haunts 
of  the  chamois  upon  the  upper  heights  as  well  as  he  knew  the  pastur- 
age-ground whore  fed  the  kids  which  l)clonged  to  the  father  of  Clo- 
thilde. lie  had  nut-brown  hair,  and  dark  blue  eyes ;  and  there  wa* 
not  a  iiiai.lcd  of  the  valley,  save  only  the  pensive  Clothilde,  but 
watched  admiringly  the  proud  stop  of  the  hunter  Friedland. 


THE    BRIDE    Oi)'    THE    ICE-KING.  19 

Many  a  time  her  flither  had  spoken  of  the  daring  deeds  of  Con- 
rad, and  had  told  to  Clothilde,  with  an  old  man's  ardor,  the  tale  of  the 
wild  mountain-hunts  which  Conrad  could  reckon  up ;  and  how,  once 
upon  a  time,  when  a  child  was  lost,  they  had  lowered  the  young 
huntsman  with  ropes  into  the  deep  crevasses  of  the  glacier ;  and  how, 
in  the  depths  of  the  icy  cavern,  he  had  bound  the  young  child  to  his 
shoulder,  and  been  dragged,  bruised  and  half-dead,  to  the  light  again. 

To  all  this  Clothilde  had  listened  with  a  sparkle  in  her  eye ;  yet 
she  felt  not  her  heart  warming  toward  Conrad,  as  the  heart  of  a 
maiden  should  warm  toward  an  accepted  lover. 

Many  and  many  a  time  Conrad  had  gazed  on  Clothilde  as  she 
kneeled  in  the  village  church.  Many  and  many  a  time  he  had  watched 
her  crimson  kirtle,  as  she  disappeared  among  the  walnut-trees  that 
grew  by  her  father's  door.  Many  and  many  a  time  he  had  looked 
longingly  upon  the  ten  dun  cows  which  made  up  her  father's  flock, 
and  upon  the  green  pasturage  ground,  where  his  kids  counted  by 

fifty. 

Brave  enough  he  was  to  climb  the  crags,  even  when  the  ice  was 
smooth  on  the  narrow  foot-way,  and  a  slip  would  hurl  him  to  destruc- 
tion ;  he  had  no  fear  of  the  crevasses  which  gape  frightfully  on  the 
paths  that  lead  over  the  glaciers ;  he  did  not  shudder  at  the  thunders 
which  the  avalanches  sent  howling  among  the  heights  around  him ; 
and  yet  Conrad  had  never  dared  to  approach,  as  a  lover  might 
approach,  the  pensive-eyed  Clothilde. 

With  other  maidens  of  the  village  he  danced  ana  sang,  even  as  the 
other  young  herdsmen,  who  were  his  mates  in  the  village  games, 
danced  and  sang.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  he  had  borne  a  gift  —  a 
hunter's  gift  of  tender  chamois-flesh  —  to  the  old  man,  her  father. 
And  Clothilde,  with  her  own  low  voice,  had  said,  "  My  father  thanks 
you,  Conrad." 

And  the  brave  hunter,  in  her  presence,  was  like  a  sparrow  within 
the  swoop  of  a  falcon ! 

If  she  sang,  he  listened  —  as  though  he  dreamed  that  leaves  were 
fluttering,  and  birds  were  singing  over  him.  If  she  was  silent,  he 
gazed  on  her  —  as  he  had  gazed  on  cool  mountain-pools  when  the  sun 
smote  fiercely. 


20  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

The  idle  raillery  of  the  village  he  could  not  talk  to  her ;  of  love 
she  would  not  listen ;  of  things  higher,  with  his  peasant's  voice  and 
mind,  he  knew  not  how  to  talk.  And  the  mother  of  Conrad  Fried- 
land,  a  lone  widow,  living  only  in  the  love  of  her  son,  upon  the  first 
lift  of  the  hills,  chid  him  for  his  silence,  and  said,  "He  who  has  no 
tongue  to  tell  of  love,  can  have  no  heart  to  win  it !" 

Yet  Conrad,  for  very  lack  of  speech,  felt  his  slumberous  passion 
grow  strong.  The  mountain  springs  which  are  locked  longest  with 
ice,  run  fiercest  in  summer. 

And  Conrad  rejoiced  in  the  trial  that  was  to  come,  where  he  could 
speak  his  love  in  his  own  mountain  way,  and  conquer  the  heart  of 
Clothilde  with  his  good  right  arm. 

Howbeit,  there  was  many  another  herdsman  of  the  valle}'  who 
prepared  himself  joyously  for  a  strife,  where  the  winner  should 
receive  the  fifty  kids,  and  the  ten  dun  cows,  and  the  hand  of  the  beau- 
tiful Clothilde.  Many  a  mother,  whose  eye  had  rested  lovingly  ou 
these,  one  and  all,  bade  their  sons  "  Be  ready !" 

Clothilde  alone  seemed  careless  of  those,  who,  on  the  festal  day, 
were  to  become  her  champions;  and  ever  she  passed  undisturbed 
through  her  daily  round  of  cares,  kneeling  in  the  village  church,  sing- 
ing the  songs  that  gladdened  her  father's  heart,  and  lingering  at  the 
5unset  hour,  by  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,  whence  she  saw 
the  glaciers  and  the  riountain-tops  glowing  with  the  rich  red  light 
from  the  west. 

Upon  the  night  which  was  before  the  day  of  the  village  fete,  it 
happened  that  she  met  the  brave  young  hunter,  Conrad,  returning 
from  the  hills,  with  a  chamois  upon  his  shoulder.  He  saluted  her,  as 
was  his  wont,  and  would  have  followed  at  respectful  distance ;  but 
Clothilde  beckoned  his  approach. 

"  Conrad,"  said  she,  "  you  will  contend  with  the  others  at  the  fete 
to-morrow  ?" 

"  I  will  be  there,"  said  Conrad  ;  "  and,  please  the  blessed  Virgin, 
I  will  win  such  prize  as  was  never  won  before!" 

"Conrad  Fricdiand,  I  know  that  you  are  brave,  and  that  you  are 
strong.  Will  you  not  be  generous  also?  Swear  to  me  that  if 
you  are  the  winner  in  to-morrow's  sports,  you  will  not  claim  the 


THE    BRIDE    OF    THE    ICE-KING.  21 

reward  which  my  father  has  promised  to  the  bravest,  for  a  year  and 
a  day." 

"  You  ask  what  is  hard,"  said  Conrad.  "  When  the  chamois  is 
near,  I  draw  my  bow ;  and  when  my  arrow  is  on  the  string,  how  can  I 
stay  the  shaft  f 

"  It  is  well  for  your  mountain  prizes,  Conrad ;  but  bethink  you 
the  heart  of  a  virgin  is  to  be  won  like  a  gazelle  of  the  mountains  ?" 

"  Clothilde  will  deny  me,  then  1"  said  Conrad  reproachfully. 

"Until  a  year  and  a  day  are  passed,  I  must  deny,"  said  the 
maiden.  "  But  when  the  snows  of  another  spring  are  melted,  and  the 
fete  has  returned  again,  if  you,  Conrad  Friedland,  are  of  the  same 
heart  and  will,  I  promise  to  be  yours." 

And  Conrad  touched  his  lips  to  the  hand  she  lent  him,  and  swore, 
"  by  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,"  that,  for  a  year  and  a  day,  he  would 
make  no  claim  to  the  hand  of  Clothilde,  though  he  were  twice  the 
winner. 

The  morning  was  beautiful  which  ushered  in  the  day  of  the  t'&tes. 
The  maidens  of  the  village  were  arrayed  in  their  gayest  dresses,  and 
the  young  herdsmen  of  the  valley  had  put  on  their  choicest  finery. 
The  sports  were  held  upon  a  soft  bit  of  meadow-land  at  the  foot  of 
the  great  glacier  which  rises  in  the  front  of  Lauterbrunnen.  A  bar- 
rier of  earth  and  rocks,  clothed  with  fir-trees,  separated  the  green  mea- 
dow from  the  crystal  moimtain  which  gleamed  above.  And  ever, 
when  the  sun  smote  hotly,  the  glacier  streams,  which  murmured  upon 
either  side*  of  the  meadow,  made  cool  the  air. 

All  the  people  of  the  village  were  assembled,  and  many  a  young 
hunter  or  herdsman  beside,  from  the  plains  of  Interlacken,  or  from 
the  borders  of  the  Brienzer-See,  or  from  the  farther  vale  of  Grindel 
wald. 

But  Conrad  had  no  fear  of  these ;  for  already  on  many  a  day  of 
fete,  he  had  measured  forces  with  them,  and  had  borne  oflT  the  prizes, 
whether  in  wrestling  or  in  the  cast  of  the  granite  boulders.  This  day 
he  had  given  great  care  to  his  dress ;  a  jerkin  of  neatly  tanned  cha- 
mois-leather set  off  his  muscular  figure,  and  it  was  dressed  upon  the 
throat  and  upon  the  front  with  those  rare  furs  of  the  mountains,  which 
betokened  his  huntsman's  craft. 


22  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEKIR. 

Many  a  village  maiden  wished  that  day  she  held  the  place  of  Clo- 
tnilde,  and  that  she,  too,  might  have  such  champion  as  the  brown- 
haired  Conrad. 

A  rich  cap  of  lace,  worked  by  the  village  hands,  was  ronnd  the 
forehead  of  Clothilde ;  and,  to  humor  the  pride  of  the  old  man,  her 
father,  she  had  added  the  fairest  flowers  which  grew  by  the  cottage- 
door.     But,  fair  as  the  flowers  were,  the  face  of  Clothilde  was  fairer. 

She  sat  between  the  old  herdsman  and  the  cure,  upon  one  of  the 
rustic  benches  which  circled  the  plateau  of  green,  where  the  village 
sports  were  held.  Tall  poles  of  hemlock  or  of  fir,  dressed  with  gar- 
lands of  mountain  laurel,  stood  at  the  end  of  the  little  arena,  where 
the  valley  champions  were  to  contend.  Among  these  were  some 
whose  strong  arms  and  lithe  figures  promised  a  hard  struggle  to  the 
hopeful  Conrad ;  and  there  were  jealous  ones  who  would  have  been 
glad  to  humble  the  pretensions  of  one  so  favored  by  the  village  maid- 
ens, as  the  blue-eyed  hunter,  Friedland. 

Many  looks  turned  curiously  toward  the  bench,  where  sat  the  vil- 
lage belle,  whose  fortunes  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  ftite  of  the  day  ; 
but  her  brow  was  calm ;  and  there,  as  ever,  she  was  watchful  of  the 
comfort  of  the  old  man,  her  father. 

Half  of  the  games  had  passed  over,  indeed,  before  she  turned  a 
curious  look  upon  the  strife.  Conrad,  though  second  in  some  of  the 
lesser  sports,  had  generally  kept  the  first  rank ;  and  the  mere  vigor- 
ous trials  to  come  would  test  his  rivals  more  seriously,  and  would,  it 
was  thought,  give  him  a  more  decided  triumph. 

When  the  wrestlers  were  called,  there  appeared  a  stout  herdsman 
from  the  valley  of  Grindelwald,  who  was  the  pride  of  his  village,  and 
who  challenged  boldly  the  hunter,  Conrad.  He  was  taller  and  seemed 
far  stronger  than  Conrad  ;  and  there  Avere  those  —  the  old  herdsman 
among  them  —  who  feared  greatly  that  a  stranger  would  carry  off*  the 
prize. 

But  the  heart  of  the  brave  hunter  was  fired  l)y  the  sight  of  Clo- 
thilde, now  bending  an  eager  look  upon  the  sports.  He  accepted  the 
challenge  of  the  stout  herdsman,  and  they  grappled  each  other  in  the 
mountain  way.  The  stranger  was  the  stronger;  but  Conrad,  the 
more  active.     For  a  long  time  they  struggled  vainly,  and  the  vil- 


THE    BRIDE    OF    THE    ICE-KING.  23 

lagers  were  doubting  how  the  strife  might  end,  when  the  foot  of  Con- 
rad, striking  a  soft  bit  of  turf,  failed  him,  and  he  fell.  There  was  a 
low  murmur  of  disappointment;  but  in  an  instant,  Conrad,  by  a 
vigorous  effort,  freed  himself  from  his  rival  and  was  again  upon  his 
feet. 

They  grappled  once  more,  but  the  heavy  herdsman  was  weary ; 
Conrad  pressed  him  closely ;  and  soon  the  valley  rang  with  shouts, 
and  the  champion  of  Grindelwald  was  fairly  vanquished. 

After  this  came  the  cast  of  the  boulders.  One  after  another,  the 
younger  men  made  their  trial,  and  the  limit  of  each  cast  was  marked 
by  a  willow  wand,  and  in  the  cleft  of  each  wand  was  a  fragment  of 
ribbon,  bestowed  by  well-wishing  maidens. 

Conrad,  taking  breath  after  his  wrestling-match,  advanced  com- 
posedly to  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  arena,  where  stood  the  fir-sap- 
lings with  the  laurel  wreaths.  He  lifted  the  boulder  with  ease,  and, 
giving  it  a  vigorous  cast,  retired  unconcerned.  The  little  blue  strip 
of  ribbon  which  presently  marked  its  fall,  was  far  in  advance  of  the 
rest. 

Again  there  was  a  joyous  shout.  But  the  men  of  Grindelwald 
cried  out  loudly  to  their  champion,  and  he  came  forward ;  but  his  arm 
was  tired,  and  his  cast  was  scarce  even  with  the  second  of  the  men  of 
Lauterbrunnen. 

Again  the  shout  rose  louder  than  before,  and  Conrad  Friedlaud 
was  declared  by  the  village  umpires  of  the  fete  to  be  the  victor, 
and,  by  will  of  the  old  herdsman,  to  be  the  accepted  lover  of  the 
beautiful  Clothilde.  They  led  him  forward  to  the  stand  where  sat  the 
cure,  between  the  old  herdsman  and  the  herdsman's  daughter. 

Clothilde  grew  suddenly  pale.     Would  Conrad  keep  his  oath  1 

Fear  may  have  confused  him,  or  fatigue  may  have  forbid  his  utter- 
ance ;  but  he  reached  forth  his  hand  for  the  guerdon  of  the  day,  and 
the  token  of  betrothal. 

Just  then  an  Alpine  horn  sounded  long  and  clear,  and  the  echoes 
lingered  among  the  cliffs  and  in  the  spray  of  the  Dust-Fall.  It  was 
the  call  of  a  new  challenger.  By  the  laws  of  the  fete,  the  games  were 
open  until  sunset,  and  the  new-comer  could  not  be  denied. 

None  had  seen  him  before.     His  frame  was  slight,  but  firmly 


•24  THE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEMR. 

knit ;  his  habit  was  of  the  finest  white  wool,  closed  at  the  throat  with 
rich  white  furs,  and  caught  together  with  latchets  of  silver.  His  hair 
and  beard  were  of  a  light  flaxen  color,  and  his  chamois  boots  were 
clamped  and  spiked  with  polished  steel,  as  if  he  had  crossed  the  gla- 
cier. It  wiis  said  by  those  near  whom  he  passed,  that  a  cold  current 
of  air  followed  him,  and  that  his  breath  was  frosted  on  his  beard,  even 
under  the  mild  sun  of  May. 

lie  said  no  word  to  any ;  but,  advancing  with  a  stately  air  to  the 
little  plateau  where  the  fu-  spars  stood  crowned  with  their  laurel  gar- 
lands, he  seized  upon  a  boulder  larger  than  any  had  yet  thrown,  and 
cast  it  far  beyond  the  mark  where  the  blue  pennant  of  Conrad  still 
fluttered  in  the  wind. 

There  was  a  stifled  cry  of  amazement,  and  the  wonder  grew  greater 
still,  when  the  stranger,  in  place  of  putting  a  willow  wand  to  mark  his 
throw,  seized  upon  one  of  the  fa'  saplings,  and  hurled  it  through  the 
air  with  such  precision  and  force,  that  it  fixed  itself  in  the  sod  within 
a  foot  of  the  half-embedded  boulder,  and  rested  quivering  with  its 
laurel  wreath  waving  from  the  top. 

The  victor  waited  for  no  conductor ;  but,  marching  straight  to  the 
benches  where  sat  the  bewildered  maiden,  and  her  wonder-stricken 
father,  bespoke  them  thus : 

"  Fair  lady,  the  prize  is  won ;  but  if,  within  a  year  and  a  day, 
Conrad  Friedland  can  do  better  than  this,  I  will  yield  him  the  palm ; 
until  then  I  go  to  my  home  in  the  mountains." 

The  villagers  looked  on  amazed;  Clothilde  alone  was  calm,  Init 
silent.  None  had  before  scon  the  stranger;  none  had  noticed  his 
approach,  and  his  departure  was  as  secret  as  his  coming. 

The  cure  muttered  his  prayers ;  the  village  maidens  recalled  l>y 
timid  whispers  his  fine  figure,  and  the  rich  furs  that  he  wore.  And 
Conrad,  recovering  from  his  stupor,  said  never  a  word ;  but  paced 
back  and  forth  musingly,  the  length  of  the  boulder-cast  which  the 
white-clad  stranger  had  made. 

The  old  man  swore  it  was  some  spirit,  and  bade  Clothilde  accept 
Conrad  at  once  as  a  protector  against  the  temptations  of  the  Evil  One. 
But  the  maiden,  more  than  ever  wedded  to  her  visionary  life  by  this 
strange  apparition,  dwelt  upon  the  words  of  the  stranger,  and  repeat- 


THE    BRIDE    OF    THE    ICE-KING.  25 

ing  them,  said  to  her  father,  "  Let  Conrad  wait  for  a  twelvemonth, 
and  if  he  passes  the  throw  of  the"  Unknown,  I  will  be  his  bride." 

The  sun  sank  beyond  the  hills  of  the  Ober-Alp,  and  with  the  twi- 
light came  a  mystic  awe  over  the  minds  of  the  villagers.  The 
thoughtful  Clothilde  fancied  the  stranger  some  spiritual  guardian: 
most  of  all,  when  she  recalled  the  vow  which  Conrad  had  made  and 
had  broken.  She  remarked,  moreover,  as  they  went  toward  their 
home,  that  an  eagle  of  the  Alps,  long  after  its  wonted  time  of  day, 
hovered  over  their  path,  and  only  when  the  cottage-door  was  closed, 
soared  away  to  the  cliffs  that  lifted  above  the  glaciers  of  Lauterbrun- 
nen. 

The  old  herdsman  began  now  to  regard  his  daughter  with  a 
strange  kind  of  awe.  He  consulted  long  and  anxiously  with  the  good 
cure  of  the  village.  Could  it  be  that  the  maid,  so  near  to  his  heart, 
was  leagued  with  the  spirit-world  1  He  recalled  the  time  when  he 
had  met  first  her  mother,  wandering  upon  the  mountains.  Whence 
had  she  come  1  And  was  the  stranger  of  the  festal  day,  of  some  far 
kindred,  who  now  sought  his  own?  It  was  remembered  how  the 
mother  had  loved  her  child,  and  had  borne  her  in  her  arms  often  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  glacier,  and  lulled  Clothilde  to  sleep  with  the 
murmur  of  the  deep  falls  of  water,  which,  in  the  heats  of  summer, 
make  mysterious  music  in  the  heart  of  the  ice-mo"untains. 

It  was  remembered  how,  in  girlhood,  Clothilde  had  often  wandered 
thither  to  pluck  Alpine  roses,  and  was  heedless  always  of  the  icy 
breath  which  came  from  the  blue  glacier-caverns.  Always,  too,  she 
hung  her  votive  garlands  on  the  altar  of  "  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,"  and 
prayed  for  t^e  pilgrims,  who,  in  winter,  traversed  the  rude  passes  of 
the  Ober-Alp.  Did  the  mother  belong  to  the  Genius  of  the  Moun- 
tain 1  and  was  the  daughter  pledged  to  the  Ice-King  again  1 

The  poor  old  herdsman  bowed  his  head  in  prayer ;  the  good  cure 
whispered  words  of  comfort ;  Clothilde  sang  as  she  had  sung  in  the 
days  that  were  gone,  but  the  old  man  trembled  at  her  low  tones, 
which  thrilled  now  in  his  car  like  the  syren  sounds,  which  they  say 
in  the  Alps,  go  always  before  the  roar  of  some  great  avalanche. 

Yet  the  father's  heart  twined  more  and  more  round  the  strange 
spirit-being  of  Clothilde.     It  seemed  to  him,  more  and  more,  that  the 


26  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

mother's  image  was  before  him,  and  that  the  mother's  soul  looked  out 
from  the  pensive  eyes  of  Clothildc.  He  said  now  no  word  of  mar^ 
riage,  but  waited  with  resignation  fjr  the  dread  twelvemonth  to  pass 
away.  And  he  looked  with  pity  upon  the  strong-hearted  Conrad, 
who,  fiercer  and  more  daring  than  before  —  as  if  some  quick  despair 
had  given  courage  —  scaled  the  steepest  cliffs,  and  brought  back  stores 
of  chamois-flesh,  of  which  he  laid  always  a  portion  at  the  door  of  the 
father  of  Clothilde. 

It  was  said,  too,  that  the  young  huntsman  was  heard  at  night,  cast- 
ing boulder-stones  in  the  valley,  and  nerving  his  arm  for  the  trial  of 
the  twelvemonth  to  come. 

The  maidens  of  the  village  eyed  askance  the  tripping  figure  of  the 
valley  belle ;  the  mothers  of  the  young  herdsmen  spoke  less  often  of 
the  ten  dun  cows  which  fed  upon  her  father's  pasture-grounds,  and 
counted  less  often  the  fifty  kids  which  trooped  at  night  into  her 
father's  folds  upon  the  mountain. 

Yet  ever  Clothilde  made  her  sunset  walks  to  the  chapel  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Snow,  and  ever,  in  her  place  in  the  village  church,  she 
prayed,  as  reverently  as  before,  for  Heaven  to  bless  the  years  of  the 
life  of  the  old  man,  her  father. 

If  she  lived  in  a  spirit-world,  it  seemed  a  good  spirit-world ;  and 
the  crystal  glory  of  t*he  glacier,  where  no  foot  could  go,  and  where  her 
gaze  loved  to  linger,  imaged  to  her  thought  the  stainless  purity  of 
angels.  If  the  cure  talked  with  Clothilde  of  the  heaven  where  her 
mother  had  gone,  and  where  all  the  good  will  follow,  Clothilde  — 
pointed  to  the  mountains. 

Did  he  talk  of  Avorship  and  the  anthems  which  men  ^ang  iu  the 
cathedrals  of  cities  ? 

Clothildc  said,  "  Hark  to  the  avalanche !" 

Did  he  talk  of  a  good  spirit,  which  hovers  always  near  the  faith- 
ful? 

Clothildc  pointed  upward,  where  an  eagle  soared  over  the  glacier, 
a  speck  upon  the  sky. 

As  the  year  passed  away,  mysterious  rumors  were  spread  among 
the  villagers ;  and  there  were  those  who  said  they  had  seen  at  oven- 
tide,  Clothilde  Uilking  with  a  stranger  in  white,  who  was  like  the  chal- 


THE    BRIDE    OF   THE    ICE-KING.  27 

lenger  of  the  year  before.  And  when  the  whiter  had  covered  the 
lower  hills  with  white,  it  was  said  that  traces  of  strange  feet  were  seen 
about  the  little  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow. 

Howbeit,  Clothilde  neglected  not  one  of  the  duties  which  belonged 
to  her  in  the  household  of  her  father,  and  her  willing  heart  and  hand 
forbade  that  either  the  kind  old  herdsman  or  the  cure  should  speak 
aught  ill  to  her,  or  forbid  her  the  mountain  rambles. 

The  old  mother  of  Conrad  grew  frighted,  indeed,  by  the  stories  of 
the  villagers,  and  prayed  her  son  to  give  up  all  thought  of  the  strange 
Clothilde,  and  to  marry  a  maiden  whose  heart  was  of  warmer  blood, 
and  who  kept  no  league  with  the  Evil  One.  But  Conrad  only  the 
more  resolutely  followed  the  bent  of  his  will,  and  schooled  himself  for 
the  coming  trial.  If  they  talked  to  him  of  the  stranger,  he  vowed 
with  a  fearful  oath,  that,  be  he  who  he  might,  he  would  dare  him  to 
sharper  conflict  than  that  of  the  year  before. 

So,  at  length,  the  month  and  the  day  drew  near  again.  It  was 
early  spring-time.  The  wasting  snows  still  whitened  the  edges  of  the 
fields  which  hung  upon  the  slopes  of  the  mountain.  The  meadow  of 
the  fete  had  lost  the  last  traces  of  winter,  and  a  fresh  green  sod,  with 
sprinkled  daisies,  glittered  under  the  dew  and  the  sunlight. 

Clothilde  again  was  robed  with  care,  and  when  the  old  herdsman 
looked  on  her,  under  the  wreath  she  had  woven  out  by  his  cottage 
flowers,  he  forgave  her  all  he  had  thought  of  her  tie  to  the  spirit- 
world,  and  clasped  her  to  his  heart  —  "his  own,  his  good  Clothilde !" 

On  the  day  before  the  fete,  there  had  been  heavy  rain ;  and  the 
herdsmen  from  the  heights  reported  that  the  winter  snows  were  loos- 
ening, and  would  soon  come  down,  after  which  would  be  broad  sum- 
mer and  the  ripening  of  the  crops. 

Scarce  a  villager  was  away  from  the  wrestling-ground ;  for  all  had 
heard  of  Clothilde,  and  of  the  new  and  strange  comer  who  had  chal- 
lenged the  pride  of  the  valley,  and  had  disappeared  —  none  knew  whi- 
ther. 

Was  Conrad  Friedland  to  lose  again  his  guerdon  ? 

The  games  went  on,  with  the  old  man,  the  father  of  Clothilde, 
looking  on  timidly,  and  the  good  cure  holding  his  accustomed  place 
beside  him.     There  were  young  herdsmen  who  appeared  this  year, 


2a  TUE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

for  the  first  time,  among  the  wrestlers,  and  whom  the  past  twelve- 
month had  ripened  into  sturdy  manhood.  But  the  firm  and  the  tried 
sinews  of  the  hunter  Conrad  placed  him  before  all  these,  as  he  was 
before  all  the  others.  Not  so  many,  however,  as  on  the  year  before, 
envied  him  his  spirit-bride.  Yet  none  could  gainsay  her  beauty  ;  for 
this  day  her  face  was  radiant  with  a  rich  glow,  and  her  clear  com- 
plexion, relieved  by  the  green  garland  she  wore,  made  her  seem  a 
princess. 

As  the  day's  sports  went  on,  a  cool,  damp  wind  blew  up  the  val- 
ley, and  clouds  drifted  over  the  summits  of  the  mountains.  Conrad 
had  made  himself  the  victor  in  every  trial.  To  make  his  triumph  still 
more  brilliant,  he  had  even  surpassed  the  throw  of  his  unkno^^•n  rival 
of  the  year  before.  At  sight  of  this,  the  villagers  raised  one  loud 
shout  of  greeting,  which  echoed  from  end  to  end  of  the  valley.  And 
the  brave  huntsman,  flushed  with  victory,  dared  boldly  the  strangei 
of  the  white  jerkin  and  the  silver  latchets  to  appear  and  maintain  his 
claims  to  the  queen  of  the  valley  —  the  beautiful  Clothilde. 

Tliere  was  a  momentary  hush,  broken  only  by  the  distant  niur 
murof  the  Dust-Fall.  The  thickening  clouds  drifted  fast  athwart  the 
mountains. 

Clothilde  grew  suddenly  pale,  though  the  old  herdsman,  her  father, 
was  wild  with  joy.  The  cure  watched  the  growing  paleness  of  Clo- 
thilde, and  saw  her  eye  lift  toward  the  head  of  the  glacier. 

"  Bear  away  my  father !"  said  she,  in  a  quick  tone  of  authority. 
In  a  moment  the  reason  was  apparent.  A  roar,  as  of  thunder,  filled 
the  valley ;  a  vast  mass  of  the  glacier  above  had  given  way,  and  its 
crash  upon  the  first  range  of  clifls  now  reached  the  ear.  The  frag- 
ments of  ice  and  rock  were  moving  with  frightful  volume  down 
toward  the  plateau. 

The  villagers  fled  screaming ;  the  father  of  Clothilde  was  borne 
away  by  the  cur6 ;  Clothilde  herself  was,  for  the  time,  lost  sight  of. 
The  eye  of  Conrad  was  keen,  and  his  judgment  rare.  lie  saw  the 
avalanche  approaching,  but  he  did  not  fly  like  the  others.  An  upper 
plateau  and  a  thicket  of  pine-trees  were  in  the  path  of  the  avalanche : 
he  trusted  to  these  to  avert  or  to  stay  the  ruin. 

As  he  watched,  while  others  shouted  him  a  warning,  he  caught 


THE    BRIDE    OF    THE    ICE-KING.  29 

sight  of  the  figure  of  Clothilde,  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger  flying 
toward  the  face  of  the  mountain.     He  rushed  wildly  after. 

A  fearful  crash  succeeded ;  the  avalanche  had  crossed  the  plateau, 
and  swept  down  the  fir-trees;  the  trunks  splintered  before  it,  like 
summer  brambles ;  the  detached  rocks  were  hurled  down  in  showers ; 
immense  masses  of  ice  followed  quickly  after,  roaring  over  the  debris 
of  the  forest,  and,  with  a  crash  that  shook  the  whole  valley,  reached 
the  meadow  below.  Swift  as  lightning,  whole  acres  of  the  green  sod 
were  torn  up  by  the  wreck  of  the  forest-trees  and  rocks,  and  huge, 
gleaming  masses  of  ice ;  and  then,  more  slowly,  with  a  low  murmur, 
like  a  requiem,  came  the  flow  of  lesser  snowy  fragments,  covering  the 
great  ruin  with  a  mantle  of  white. 

Poor  Conrad  Friedland  was  buried  beneath ! 

The  villagers  had  all  fled  in  safety ;  but  the  green  meadow  of  the 
fetes  was  a  meadow  no  longer. 

Those  who  were  hindermost  in  the  flight  said  they  saw  the  stranger 
in  white  bearing  Clothilde,  in  her  white  robes,  up  the  face  of  the 
mountain.  It  is  certain  that  she  was  never  seen  in  the  valley  again ; 
and  the  poor  old  herdsman,  her  father,  died  shortly  after,  leaving  his 
stock  of  dun  cows  and  his  fifty  kids  to  the  village  cure,  to  buy  masses 
for  the  rest  of  his  daughter's  soul. 


"  This,"  said  the  German,  "  is  the  story  of  the  Bride  of  the  Ice- 
Ring  ;"  and  he  re-lighted  his  pipe. 

The  storm  had  now  passed  over,  and  the  stars  were  out.  Before 
us  was  the  giant  wall  of  the  Jungfrau,  with  a  little  rattle  of  glacier 
artillery  occasionally  breaking  the  silence  of  the  night.  To  the  left 
was  the  tall  peak  of  the  Wetterhorn,  gleaming  white  in  the  starlight ; 
and,  far  away  to  the  right,  we  could  see  the  shining  glaciers  at  the 
head  of  the  Lauterbrunnen  valley. 

If  I  ever  pass  that  way  again,  I  shall  ask  the  guides  to  show  me 
the  avalanche  under  which  poor  Conrad,  the  hunter,  lies  buried. 


'ZaU^ 


OOvyi^ 


5 


%\t  Simto  ^Ir0kr. 


BY   WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRTAKT 


Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 
On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes ; 

The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 
And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies ; 

And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 

In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow ; 
Flake  after  flake. 

They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 

From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veiL 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 

Rush  prone  from  the  sky  Hke  summer  hail. 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settUng  slow, 

Meet  and  are  still  in  the  depth  below ; 
Flake  after  flake. 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Here  dehcate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 

Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowd 
That  whiten  by  night  the  milky  way ; 

There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall ; 

The  sullen  water  buries  them  all ; 
Flake  after  flake, 

AU  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


32  TUE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

And  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 
From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray, 

Arc  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side, 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way ; 

As  friend  with  friend  or  husband  with  wife 

Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life ; 
Each  mated  flako 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


Lo  I  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 
Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 

As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 
They  fling  themselves  from  their  shadowy  height 

The  fair  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 

"What  speed  they  make  with  their  grave  so  nigh ; 
Flake  after  flake, 

To  he  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake  I 


I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear ; 

They  turn  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought ; 
Thou  tliinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

Who  were  for  a  time  and  now  are  not ; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost, 
That  glisten  a  moment,  and  then  are  lost, 

Flako  after  flake. 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies ; 
And  far  away,  on  the  mountain  side, 

A  fiunbcam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 
But  the  hurrying  host  that  flow  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water  no  more  is  seen ; 

Flako  after  flako. 
At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


fROM    ROUGH    NOTES    IN    A    COMMON-PLACE    BOOK. 

BT       THE       AITTHOB       OF       THE       SKETOH'BOOK. 

Paris,  April  25,  1821.  —  Made  a  call  with  a  friend,  this  morning, 
to  be  introduced  to  Talma,  the  great  French  tragedian.  He  has  a 
suite  of  apartments  in  a  hotel  in  the  Eue  Des  Petites  Augustines, 
but  is  about  to  build  a  town  residence.  He  has  also  a  country- 
retreat  a  few  miles  from  Paris,  of  which  he  is  extremely  fond,  and 
is  continually  altering  and  improving  it.  He  had  just  arrived  from 
the  country,  and  his  apartment  was  rather  in  confusion,  the  furniture 
out  of  place,  and  books  lying  about.  In  a  conspicuous  part  of  the 
saloon  was  a  colored  engraving  of  John  Philip  Kemble,  for  whom 
he  expresses  great  admiration  and  regard. 

Talma  is  about  five  feet  seven  or  eight  inches,  English,  in  height, 
and  somewhat  robust.  There  is  no  very  tragic  or  poetic  expression 
in  his*  countenance ;  his  eyes  are  of  a  bluish  gray,  with,  at  times,  a 
peculiar  cast ;  his  face  is  rather  fleshy,  yet  flexible ;  and  he  has  a  short 
thick  neck.  His  manners  are  open,  animated,  and  natural.  He 
speaks  English  well,  and  is  prompt,  unreserved,  and  copious  in  con- 
versation.. 

He  received  me  in  a  very  cordial  manner,  and  asked  if  this  was 
my  first  visit  to  Paris.  I  told  him  I  had  been  here  once  before,  about 
fourteen  years  since. 

"  Ah !  that  was  the  time  of  the  Emperor  !"  cried  he,  with  a  sudden 
gleam  of  the  eye. 

"  Yes — ^just  aftei  his  corouttion  as  King  of  Italy. 


34  THE  ATLANTIC  SOUVENIR. 

"  Ah !  those  were  the  heroic  days  of  Paris — every  day  some  new 
victory !  The  real  chivalry  of  France  rallied  round  the  Emperor;  the 
youth,  and  talent,  and  bravery  of  the  nation.  Now  you  sec  the  courts 
of  the  Tuilcrics  crowded  by  priests,  and  an  old,  worn-out  nobility 
brought  back  by  foreign  bayonets." 

He  consoled  himself  by  observing,  that  the  national  character  had 
improved  under  its  reverses.  Its  checks  and  humiliations  had  made 
the  nation  more  thoughtful.  "  Look  at  the  young  men  from  the  col- 
leges," said  he,  "  how  serious  they  are  in  their  demeanor.  Tliey  walk 
together  in  the  public  promenades,  conversing  always  on  political  sub- 
jects, but  discussing  politics  philosophically  and  scientifically.  In  fact, 
the  nation  is  becoming  as  grave  as  the  English," 

lie  thinks,  too,  that  there  is  likely  to  be  a  great  change  in  the 
French  drama.  "  The  public,"  said  he,  "  feel  greater  interest  in 
scenes  that  come  home  to  common  life,  and  in  the  fortunes  of  every 
day  people,  than  in  the  distresses  of  the  heroic  personages  of  classic 
antiquity.  Hence,  they  never  come  to  the  Theatre  Franfais,  except- 
ing to  see  a  few  great  actors,  while  they  crowd  to  the  minor  theatres 
to  witness  representations  of  scenes  in  ordinary  life.  The  revolu 
lion,"  added  he,  "  has  caused  such  vivid  and  affecting  scenes  to  pass 
before  their  eyes,  that  they  can  no  longer  be  charmed  by  fine  periods 
and  declamation.     They  require  character,  incident,  passion,  life." 

lie  seems  to  apprehend  another  revolution,  and  that  it  will  be  a 
bloody  one.  "  The  nation,"  said  he,  "  that  is  to  say,  the  younger 
part  of  it,  the  children  of  the  revolution^  have  such  a  hatred  of  the 
priests  and  the  nohlesse,  that  they  would  fly  upon  thom  like  wolves 
upon  sheep." 

On  coming  away,  he  accompanied  us  to  the  door.  In  passing 
.hrough  the  ante-eliamber,  I  pointed  to  children's  swords  and  soldiers' 
caps  lying  on  a  table.  "  Ah !"  cried  he,  with  animation,  "  the  amuse- 
ments  of  the  children  now-a-days  are  all  military.  They  will  have 
nothing  to  play  with  but  swords,  guns,  drums,  and  trumpets," 

Such  are  the  few  brief  notes  of  my  first  interview  with  Talma, 
Some  time  afterward  I  dined  in  company  with  him  at  Boauvillier's 
restaurant.  ITi^  was  in  fine  spirits:  gay  and  earnest  by  turns,  and 
always  perfectly  natural  and  unreserved. 


CONVERSATIONS    WITH    TALMA.  35 

He  spoke  with  pleasure  of  his  residence  in  England.  He  liked 
the  English.  They  were  a  noble  people ;  but  he  thought  the  French 
more  amiable  and  agreeable  to  live  among.  "  The  intelligent  and 
cultivated  English,"  he  said,  "are  disposed  to  do  generous  actions, 
but  the  common  people  are  not  so  liberal  as  the  same  class  among 
the  French :  they  have  bitter  national  prejudices.  If  a  French  pri- 
soner escaped  in  England,  the  common  people  would  be  against  him. 
In  France  it  was  otherwise.  "  When  the  fight  was  going  on  around 
Paris,"  said  he,  "  and  Austrian  and  other  prisoners  were  brought  in 
wounded,  and  conducted  along  the  Boulevards,  the  Parisian  populace 
showed  great  compassion  for  them,  and  gave  them  money,  bread,  and 
wine." 

Of  the  liberality  of  the  cultivated  class  of  English  he  gave  an  anec- 
dote. Two  French  prisoners  had  escaped  from  confinement,  and 
made  their  way  to  a  sea-port,  intending  to  get  over  in  a  boat  to  France. 
All  their  money,  however,  was  exhausted,  and  they  had  not  where- 
withal to  hire  a  boat.  Seeing  a  banker's  name  on  a  door,  they  went 
in,  stated  their  case  frankly,  and  asked  for  pecuniary  assistance,  pro- 
mising to  repay  it  faithfully.  The  banker  at  once  gave  them  one  hun- 
dred pounds.  They  offered  a  bill,  or  receipt,  but  he  declined  it.  "  If 
you  are  not  men  of  honor,"  said  he  "  such  paper  would  be  of  no  value; 
and  if  you  are  men  of  honor,  there  is  no  need  of  it."  This  circum- 
stance was  related  to  Talma  by  one  of  the  parties  thus  obliged. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  we  talked  of  the  theatre.  Talma  had 
been  a  close  observer  of  the  British  stage,  and  was  alive  to  many  of 
its  merits.  He  spoke  of  his  efforts  to  introduce  into  French  acting 
the  familiar  style  occasionally  used  by  the  best  English  tragedians; 
and  of  the  difficulties  he  encountered  in  the  stately  declamation  and 
constantly-recurring  rhymes  of  French  tragedy.  Still  he  found,  he 
said,  every  familiar  touch  of  nature  immediately  appreciated  and 
applauded  by  the  French  audiences.  Of  Shakspeare  he  expressed  the 
most  exalted  opinion,  and  said  he  should  like  to  attempt  some  of  his 
principal  characters  in  English,  could  he  be  sure  of  being  able  to  ren- 
der the  text  without  a  foreign  accent.  He  had  represented  his  charac- 
ter of  Hamlet,  translated  into  French,  in  the  Theatre  Franfais  with 
(Zreat  success  ;   but  he  felt  how  much  more  powerful  it  would  bo  if 


3G  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

given  as  Shakspearc  had  written  it,  lie  spoke  with  admiration  of  the 
individuality  of  Shakspeare's  characters,  and  the  varied  play  of  his 
language,  giving  such  a  scope  for  familiar  touches  of  pathos  and  ten 
derness  and  natural  outbreaks  of  emotion  and  passion.  "All  this," 
he  observed,  "  requires  quite  a  different  style  of  acting  from  the  well- 
balanced  verse,  flowing  periods,  and  recurring  rhymes  of  the  French 
drama ;  and  it  would,  doubtless,  require  much  study  and  practice  to 
catch  the  spirit  of  it ;  and  after  all,"  added  he,  laughing,  "I  should 
probably  fail.  Each  stage  has  its  own  peculiarities  which  belong  to 
the  nation,  and  can  not  be  thoroughly  caught,  nor  perhaps  thoroughly 
appreciated  by  strangers." 


[To  the  foregoing  scanty  notes  were  appended  some  desultory 
observations  made  at  the  time,  and  suggested  by  my  conversations 
with  Talma.  They  were  intended  to  form  the  basis  of  some  spccula- 
lations  on  the  French  literature  of  the  day,  which  were  never  carried 
out.  They  are  now  given  very  much  in  the  rough  style  in  which  they 
were  jotted  down,  with  some  omissions  and  abbreviations,  but  no 
heightenings  nor  additions,] 


The  success  of  a  translation  of  Hamlet  in  the  Thedtre  Franyais 
appears  to  me  an  era  in  the  French  drama.  It  is  true,  the  play  has 
been  sadly  mutilated  and  stripped  of  some  of  its  most  characteristic 
beauties  in  the  attempt  to  reduce  it  to  the  naked  statelincss  of  the 
pseudo-classic  drama;  but  it  retains  enough  of  the  wild  magnificence  of 
Shakspeare's  imagination  to  give  it  an  individual  character  on  the 
French  stage.  Though  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father  does  not  actiially 
tread  the  boards,  yet  it  is  supposed  to  hover  about  his  son,  unseen  by 
other  eyes ;  and  the  admirable  acting  of  Talma  conveys  to  the  audience 
a  more  awful  and  mysterious  idea  of  this  portentous  visitation  than 
could  bo  produced  by  any  visible  spectre.  I  have  seen  a  lady  carried 
fainting  from  the  boxes,  overcome  by  its  effect  upon  her  imagination. 


CONVERSATIONS    WITH    TALMA.  31 

111  this  translation  and  modification  of  the  original  play,  Hamlet's 
mother  stabs  herself  before  the  audience,  a  catastrophe  hitherto 
unknown  on  the  grand  theatre,  and  repugnant  to  the  French  idea  of 
classic  rule. 

The  popularity  of  this  play  is  astonishing.  On  the  evenings  of  its 
representation  the  doors  of  the  theatre  are  besieged  at  an  early  hour. 
Long  before  the  curtain  rises,  the  house  is  crowded  to  overflowing ; 
and  throughout  the  performance  the  audience  passes  from  intervals  of. 
breathless  attention  to  bursts  of  ungovernable  applause. 

The  success  of  this  tragedy  may  be  considered  one  of  the  triumphs 
of  what  is  denominated  the  romantic  school ;  and  another  has  been  fur- 
nished by  the  overwhelming  reception  of  Marie  Stuart,  a  modification 
of  the  German  tragedy  of  Schiller.  The  critics  of  the  old  school  are 
sadly  alarmed  at  these  foreign  innovations,  and  tremble  for  the  ancient 
decorum  and  pompous  proprieties  of  their  stage.  It  is  true,  both 
Hamlet  and  Marie  Stuart  have  been  put  in  the  strait  waistcoat  of 
Aristotle ;  yet  they  are  terribly  afraid  they  will  do  mischief^  and  set 
others  madding.  They  exclaim  against  the  apostasy  of  their  country- 
men in  bowing  to  foreign  idols,  and  against  the  degeneracy  of  their 
taste,  after  being  accustomed  from  infimcy  to  the  touching  beauties 
and  harmonious  numbers  of  Athalie,  Polyeucte,  and  Merope,  in  relish 
ing  these  English  and  German  monstrosities,  and  that  through  the 
medium  of  translation.  All  in  vain !  The  nightly  receipts  at  the  doors 
outweigh,  with  managers,  all  the  invectives  of  the  critics,  and  Hamlec 
and  Marie  Stuart  maintain  triumphant  possession  of  the  boards. 

TaMa  assures  me  that  it  begins  to  be  quite  the  fashion  in  France 
to  admire  Shakspeare ;  and  those  who  can  not  read  him  in  English 
enjoy  him  diluted  in  French  translations. 

It  may  at  first  create  a  smile  of  incredulity  that  foreigners  should 
pretend  to  feel  and  appreciate  the  merits  of  an  author,  so  recondite  at 
times  as  to  require  commentaries  and  explanations,  even  to  his  own 
countrymen ;  yet  it  is  precisely  writers  like  Shakspeare,  so  full  of 
thought,  of  character,  and  passion,  that  are  most  likely  to  be  relished, 
even  when  but  partially  understood.  Authors  whose  popularity  arises 
from  beauty  of  diction  and  harmony  of  numbers  are  ruined  by  trans 
lation ;  a  beautiful  turn  of  expression,  a  happy  combination  of  word? 


38  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVE.VIR. 

and  phrases,  and  all  the  graces  of  perfect  euphony,  are  limited  to  the 
language  in  which  they  arc  written.  Style  can  not  be  translated. 
The  most  that  can  be  done  is  to  furnish  a  parallel,  and  render  grace 
for  grace.  "Who  can  form  an  idea  of  the  exquisite  beauties  of  Racine, 
when  translated  into  a  foreign  tongue  ?  But  Shakspearo  triumphs  over 
translation.  Ilis  scenes  are  so  exuberant  in  original  and  striking 
thoughts,  and  masterly  strokes  of  nature,  that  he  can  afford  to  be 
stripped  of  all  the  magic  of  his  style.  His  volumes  are  like  the  ma 
gician's  cave  in  Aladdin,  so  full  of  jewels  and  precious  things,  that  he 
who  does  but  penetrate  for  a  moment  may  bring  away  enough  to 
enrich  himself 

The  relish  for  Shakspeare,  however,  which,  according  to  Talma,  is 
daily  increasing  in  France,  is,  I  apprehend,  but  one  indication  of  a 
general  revolution  which  is  taking  place  in  the  national  taste.  The 
French  character,  as  Talma  well  observes,  has  materially  changed 
during  the  last  thirty  years.  The  present  generation,  (the  "  children 
of  the  revolution,"  as  Talma  terms  them,)  who  are  just  growing  into 
the  full  exercise  of  talent,  are  a  different  people  from  the  French  of  the 
old  regime.  They  have  grown  up  in  rougher  times,  and  among  mort 
adventurous  and  romantic  habitudes.  They  are  less  delicate  in  tact, 
but  stronger  in  their  feelings,  and  require  more  stimulating  aliment. 
The  Frenchman  of  the  camp,  who  has  bivouacked  on  the  Danube  and 
the  Volga ;  who  has  brought  back  into  peaceful  life  the  habits  of  the 
soldier ;  who  wears  fierce  moustaches,  swaggers  in  his  gait,  and  smokes 
tobacco,  is,  of  course,  a  different  being  in  his  literary  tastes  from  the 
Frenchman  of  former  times,  who  was  refined,  but  finical  in  dress  and 
manners,  wore  powder,  and  delighted  in  perfumes  and  polisned  ver 
sification. 

The  whole  nation,  in  fact,  has  been  accustomed  for  years  to  the  glit- 
ter of  arms  and  the  parade  of  soldiery  ;  to  tales  of  battles,  sieges,  and 
victories.  The  feverish  drama  of  the  revolution,  and  the  rise  and  fall 
of  Napoleon,  have  passed  before  their  eyes  like  a  tale  of  Arabian 
enchantment.  Though  these  realities  have  passed  away,  the  remem- 
brances of  them  remain,  with  a  craving  for  the  strong  emotions  which 
they  excited. 

Tliis  may  account  in  some  measure  for  that  taste  for  the  romantic 


CONVERSATIONS    WITH    TALMA.  39 

which  is  growing  upon  the  French  nation — a  taste  vehemently  but 
vainly  reprobated  by  their  critics.  You  see  evidence  of  it  in  every 
thing :  in  their  paintings ;  in  the  engravings  which  fill  their  print-shops ; 
in  their  songs,  their  spectacles,  and  their  works  of  fiction.  For  seve- 
ral years  it  has  been  making  its  advances  without  exciting  the  jealousy 
of  the  critics ;  its  advances  being  apparently  confined  to  the  lower 
regions  of  literature  and  the  arts.  The  circulating  libraries  have 
been  filled  with  translations  of  English  and  German  romances, 
and  tales  of  ghosts  and  robbers,  and  the  theatres  of  the  Boule- 
vards occupied  by  representations  of  melo-dramas.  Still  the  higher 
regions  of  literature  remained  unaffected,  and  the  national  theatre 
retained  its  classic  stateliness  and  severity.  The  critics  consoled 
themselves  with  the  idea  that  the  romances  were  only  read  by 
women  and  children,  and  the  melo-dramas  admired  by  the  igno- 
rant and  vulgar.  But  the  children  have  grown  up  to  be  men  and 
women ;  and  the  tinge  given  to  their  imaginations  in  early  life  is  now 
to  have  an  effect  on  the  forthcoming  literature  of  the  country.  As 
yet,  they  depend  for  their  romantic  aliment  upon  the  literature  of 
other  nations,  especially  the  English  and  Germans ;  and  it  is  astonish- 
ing with  what  promptness  the  Scottish  novels,  notwithstanding  their 
dialects,  are  translated  into  French,  and  how  universally  and  eagerly 
they  are  sought  after. 

In  poetry,  Lord  Byron  is  the  vogue :  his  verses  are  translated  into 
a  kind  of  stilted  prose,  and  devoured  with  ecstasy,  they  are  si  sombre! 
His  likeness  is  in  every  print-shop.  The  Parisians  envelop  him 
with  melancholy  and  mystery,  and  believe  him  to  be  the  hero  of  his 
own  poems,  or  something  of  the  vampyre  order.  A  French  poem 
has  lately  appeared  in  imitation  of  him,*  the  author  of  which  has 
caught,  in  a  great  degree,  his  glowing  style,  and  deep  and  troubled 
emotions.  The  great  success  of  this  production  insures  an  inundation 
of  the  same  kmd  of  poetry  from  inferior  hands.  In  a  little  while  we 
shall  see  the  petty  poets  of  France,  like  those  of  England,  affecting 
to  be  moody  and  melancholy,  each  wrapping  himself  in  a  little 
mantle  of  mystery  and  misanthropy,  vaguely  accusing  himself  of 
heinous  crimes,  and  affecting  to  despise  the  world. 

*  The  Missennlenes. 


40  THE  ATLANTIC   SOUVENIR. 

That  this  taste  for  the  romantic  •will  have  its  way,  aud  give  a 
decided  tone  to  French  literature,  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  believe. 
The  human  mind  delights  in  variety,  and  abhors  monotony  even  in 
excellence.  Nations,  like  individuals,  grow  sated  with  artificial  refine- 
ments, and  their  pampered  palates  require  a  change  of  diet,  even  though 
it  be  for  the  worse.  I  should  not  be  surprised,  therefore,  to  see  the 
French  breaking  away  from  rigid  rule;  from  polished  verse,  easy 
narrative,  the  classic  drama,  and  all  the  ancient  delights  of  elegant  lite- 
rature, and  rioting  in  direful  romances,  melo-dramatic  plays,  turgid 
prose,  and  glowing  rough-written  poetry. 


Paeib, 


(yA^€-^^  /y^^s^^v^^^^^a:^  y 


^y- 


gl  D'i5i0it  0f  tilt  j0U5:itonif. 


EPILOGUE    10    A     LECTURE    ON     WORDS  AVOETH. 


BY     OLIVKK    ■WENDELL    HOLMES. 


Come,  spread  your  wings  as  I  spread  mine, 
And  leave  the  crowded  hall 

For  where  the  eyes  of  twilight  shine 
O'er  evening's  western  wall. 

These  are  the  pleasant  Berkshire  hills, 

Each  with  its  leafy  crown ; 
Hark  I  from  their  sides  a  thousand  rUls 

Come  singing  sweetly  down. 

A  thousand  rills ;  they  leap  and  shine, 
Strained  through  the  mossy  nooks, 

Till,  clasped  in  many  a  gathering  twine, 
They  swell  a  hundi'ed  brooks. 

A  hundred  brooks ;  and  still  they  run 
"With  ripple,  shade,  and  gleam, 

Till,  clustering  all  their  braids  in  one, 
They  flow  a  single  stream. 

A  bracelet,  spun  from  mountahi  mist, 

A  silvery  sash  unwound. 
With  OS-bow  curve  and  sinuous  twist. 

It  writhes  to  reach  the  Sound. 

This  is  my  bark ;  a  pigmy's  ship ; 

Beneath  a  child  it  rolls ; 
Fear  not ;  one  body  makes  it  dip. 

But  not  a  thousand  souls. 


THE   ATLANTIC   SODVEXIR. 

Float  we  the  grassy  banks  between ; 

"Without  an  oar  we  gUde ; 
The  meadows,  sheets  of  living  green, 

Unroll  on  either  side. 

Come,  take  the  book  we  love  so  well. 

And  let  us  read  and  dream 
"We  see  whate'er  its  pages  tell, 

And  sail  an  English  stream. 

Up  to  the  clouds  the  lark  has  sprung, 

Still  trilling  as  he  flies ; 
The  linnet  sings  as  there  he  sung ; 

The  unseen  cuckoo  cries : 

And  daisies  strew  the  banks  along, 
And  yellow  kingcups  shine, 

"With  cowslips,  and  a  prirarosfi  throng, 
And  humble  celandine. 

Ah  foolish  dream  I  when  Nature  nursed 

Her  daughter  in  the  West, 
Europe  had  drained  one  fountain  first; 

She  bared  her  other  breast. 

On  the  young  planet's  orient  shore 
ller  morning  hand  she  tried, 

Then  turned  the  broad  medallion  o'er 
And  stamped  the  sunset  side. 

Take  what  she  gives;  her  pine's  tall  stem; 

Uer  elm  with  drooping  spray; 
She  wears  her  mountain  diadem 

Still  in  her  own  proud  way. 

Look  on  the  forest's  ancient  kings, 
The  hemlock's  towering  pride ; 

Yon  trunk  had  thrice  a  hundred  rings. 
And  fell  before  it  died. 


A    VISION    OF    THE    IIOUSATONIC.  ^^ 

Nor  tliiuk  that  Nature  saves  her  bloom 

And  sHghts  her  new  domain; 
For  us  she  wears  her  court  costume; 

Look  on  its  queenly  train ! 

The  lily  with  the  sprinkled  dots,  , 

Erands  of  the  noontide  beam ; 
The  cardinal,  and  the  blood-red  spots, 

Its  double  in  the  stream. 

As  if  some  wounded  eagle's  breast, 

Slow  throbbing  o'er  the  plain, 
Had  left  its  airy  path  impressed 

In  drops  of  scarlet  rain. 

And  harkl  and  hark!  the  woodland  rings; 

There  thirilled  the  thrush's  soul ; 
And  look !  and  look  I  those  lightning  wings  — 

The  fire-plumed  oriole  1 

Above,  the  hen-hawk  s^^ims  and  swoops, 

Flung  from  the  bright  blue  sky ; 
Below,  the  robin  hops  and  whoops 

His  little  Indian  cry. 

The  beetle  on  the  wave  has  brought 

A  pattern  all  his  own, 
Shaped  like  the  razor-breasted  yacht 

To  England  not  unknown ! 

Beauty  runs  virgin  in  the  woods. 

Robed  in  her  rustic  green. 
And  oft  a  longing  thought  intrades, 

As  if  we  might  have  seen 

Her  every  finger's  every  joint 

Ringed  with  some  golden  line ; 
Poet  whom  Nature  did  anoint  I 

Had  our  young  home  been  thine. 


44  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Yet  think  not  so;  old  England's  blood 
Runs  warm  in  English  veins, 

But  wafled  o'er  the  icy  flood 
Its  better  life  remains; 

Our  children  know  each  wJd-woovl  smell, 
Tiie  bayberry  and  the  fern, 

The  man  who  does  not  know  them  well 
Is  all  too  old  to  leam, 

Be  patient;  Love  has  long  been  grown; 

Ambition  waxes  strong, 
And  Heaven  is  asking  time  alone 

To  mould  a  child  of  song. 

When  Fate  draws  forth  the  mystic  lot 
The  chosen  bard  that  calls, 

Xo  e)'c  will  be  upon  the  spot 
Where  the  bright  token  fells. 

Perchance  the  blue  Atlantic's  brink, 
The  broad  Ohio's  gleam. 

Or  where  the  panther  stoops  to  drink 
Of  wild  Missouri's  stream : 

"Wlicre  winter  clasps  with  glittering  ice 
Katahdin's  silver  chains. 

Or  Georgia's  flowery  paradise 
Unfolds  its  blushing  plains: 

But  know  that  none  of  ancient  earth 
Can  bring  the  sacred  fire ; 

He  drinks  tlie  wave  of  Western  birtu 
That  rules  the  Western  lyre  I 


A    REMINISCENCE    OF    KENTUCKY. 

•  

BY     EEV.      8AMTJEL     OBOOOD. 


Every  profession  or  business  has  its  own  peculiar  experiences, 
and  it  has  often  seemed  to  nae  that  the  world  of  readers  would  be 
wiser,  and  they  who  make  books  for  them  would  be  far  more  inter- 
esting and  instructive,  if  every  writer  would  describe  things  from  his 
own  actual  point  of  view,  trying  honestly  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to 
nature  and  life  with  his  own  hand  from  his  own  position.  The  genu 
ine  diary  of  a  physician,  or  lawyer,  or  clergyman,  or  merchant,  or 
banker,  if  recording  his  own  impressions  during  his  years  of  activity, 
would  be  as  interesting  as  any  fictitious  sketches,  and  far  more 
instructive,  whether  to  the  old  who  are  always  glad  to  fight  their  bat- 
tles over  again,  or  to  the  young  whose  battles  have  not  yet  begun.  I 
do  not  make  this  remark  by  way  of  preface  to  any  ambitious  portrait- 
ures of  professional  scenes  and  labors,  but  merely  to  introduce  a  few 
slight  sketches  of  professional  travel  that  seem  quite  as  well  fitted  for 
the  present  purpose  as  any  more  elaboi>ate  essay. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  Kentucky  after  an  absence  of 

seventeen  years.     I  was  at  the  city  of  L at  various  times  in  the 

years  1836-37,  and  have  never  forgotten  the  impression  left  by  the 
place  and  the  people.  The  first  years  of  a  minister's  professional  life 
arc  far  more  significant  than  those  of  any  other  profession ;  for  usually 
he  takes  upon  himself  the  full  burden  of  his  cares,  and  in  most  cases 
he  has  as  much  labor  and  anxiety  at  twenty -five  as  at  fifly.  In  one 
respect,  indeed,  he  has  more  care  at  the  outset  of  his  career ;  for  he  is 


IC  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOl'VENIR. 

obliged  to  depend  each  week  upon  the  fresh  coinage  of  his  own  brain, 
instead  of  falling  back  upon  the  large  literary  capital  accumulated  by 
a  veteran  sermon-writer.  The  consequence  is  that  the  first  two  or 
three  years  of  a  preacher's  life  are  quite  likely  to  decide  his  destiny, 
and  if  he  does  not  break  down  within  this  period  after  his  settlement, 
he  is  pretty  well  seasoned  and  stocked  for  subsequent  needs.  It  is 
advisable,  therefore,  on  many  accounts,  that  he  should  take  what  the 
Germans  call  his  "  Wandcrjahre,"  and  travel  a  year  or  two  before 
pitching  his  tent  for  permanence.  Travel  merely  fur  pleasure,  or  for 
general  information,  is  dangerous  to  a  young  man's  habits  of  study 
and  sobriety  of  purpose,  whilst  travel  with  professional  aims,  for 
periods  of  service  for  a  few  weeks  or  months  in  different  places,  gives 
him  a  wide  field  of  observation,  and  prepares  him  for  his  parish  duties 
alike  as  a  man  of  practical  experience  and  of  literary  resources.  I 
remember  very  well  the  events  of  the  two  years  passed  in  this  way, 
and  have  been  inclined  to  ascribe  the  good  health  and  constant  labor 
of  the  long  time  since  to  the  influence  of  those  years  of  wandering.  1 
visited,  in  some  way,  almost  every  State  in  the  Union,  and  in  various 
cities  and  towns  remained  several  weeks,  and  in  a  few  cases  several 
months.     No  place  lingers  more  fondly  in  memory  than  the  city  of 

L ,  Kentucky. 

Contrast  is  one  of  the  laws  of  sympathy,  and  there  is  something 
in  the  electric  beat  of  the  Southern  pulse  quite  fascinating  to  a  young 
man  educated  under  the  sedate  discipline  of  New-England,  and  taught 
to  depend  upon  cool  reasoning  as  the  only  sure  path  to  the  convic- 
tions of  his  audience.  Most  of  our  young  theological  students  of  the 
more  ambitious  kind,  put  study  and  thought  enough  into  their  first 
sermon  to  expand  into  a  whole  volume,  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  it 
is  the  emotional  life  that  gives  the  sermon  its  power,  and  that,  witlv 
out  this,  the  gun  "  ecclesiastic,"  however  crammed  with  kills  or  shot, 
has  no  powder,  and  can  not  be  fired.  A  Southern  audience  is  sure  to 
teach  a  young  man  this  fact,  and,  whilst  fond  of  clear  reasoning,  it  is 
so  greedy  for  fervor  in  feeling  and  utterance,  as  to  have  little  patience 
with  the  speaker  wlio  does  not  meet  this  want.  The  tone  of  social 
life  is  somewhat  in  the  same  spirit,  and  nothing  can  more  successfully 
f-\^f  the  stiflncss  out  of  the  manners  and  conversation  of  our  Nurtb 


EIGHTEEN   TEARS.  41 

ern  scholastics  than  a  few  months'  sojourn  in  hearty  Southern  society. 
I  remember  very  well  the  first  impression  of  Kentucky  life.  Faults 
there  were  in  abundance  to  note,  deficiencies  of  culture,  radical  errors 
in  the  political  and  domestic  order,  yet  the  sternest  censor  could  not 
but  be  captivated  by  the  cordiality  of  the  people,  and  even  soften  his 
censure  into  sympathy,  when  he  found  that  they  were  quite  as  ready 
to  perceive  and  lament  their  failings  as  he  could  be.  From  the  first 
hearty  shake  of  the  hand  from  a  Kentuckian  on  the  crowded  landing 
to  the  hearty  fixrewells  that  speeded  the  parting  guest  upon  his  home- 
ward way  months  afterward,  the  same  genial  pulse  seemed  to  beat. 
It  would  be  quite  as  wrong  to  regard  this  impulsive  warmth  of  manner 
as  mere  affectation  of  generosity,  as  it  would  be  wrong  to  regard  the 
colder  temper  of  Northern  men  as  proof  of  habitual  selfishness.  The 
climate  has  much  to  do  with  the  temperament,  and  it  is  undoubtedly 
the  union  of  Southern  impulsiveness  with  the  daring  self-reliance 
incident  to  a  border  life  that  has  given  the  Kentuckian  his  peculiar 
air  and  tone. 

So  far  as  I  could  see,  the  same  electric  temper  appeared  in  every 
sphere  of  life,  certainly  in  the  serious  as  well  as  in  the  festive  sphere. 
If  in  the  conduct  of  business,  especially  of  agricultural  business,  there 
were  some  tokens  of  the  easy  gait  so  characteristic  of  people  accus- 
tomed to  be  served  by  slaves,  no  trace  of  languor  showed  itself  when- 
ever men  met  together  upon  any  interesting  occasion,  whether  grave 
or  gay.  A  revival  preacher,  or  a  stump  orator,  could  have  no  occa- 
sion to  complain  of  dull  listeners.  The  chat  of  an  evening  party  had 
none  of  the  stately  reserve  so  affected  by  English  mannerists  nearer 
home,  but  seemed  downright  earnest,  as  if  society  were  a  genuine 
business,  and  very  pleasant  business,  too.  I  remember  the  perfect 
furore  that  prevailed  during  one  of  those  semi-barbarous  races  which 
are  a  kind  of  relic  of  the  ancient  tournament,  with  this  difference,  that 
the  man  is  but  a  spectator,  and  leaves  the  honors  and  the  pains  of  the 
struggle  to  his  horse.  The  whole  city  was  in  commotion,  and  the 
rage  of  betting  infected  the  servants  and  slaves.  The  little  fellow 
that  brushed  our  clothes  at  the  boarding-house,  swelled  into  the  conse- 
quence of  a  gentleman  of  the  turf,  as  he  staked  his  half  dollar  with  a 
comrade  of  like  hue  and  stature,  whilst  the  august  head  of  Henry 


43  THE    ATLANTIC    SOn'EMR. 

Clay,  then  in  his  prime,  towered  up  among  the  sporting  magnates  on 
the  stand  erected  for  the  judges  of  the  course.  All  Kentucky  and  all 
Tennessee  seemed  to  be  embodied  in  those  rival  racers,  and  every 
Kentuckian  felt  an  inch  taller  when  his  own  pet  came  in  the  winner. 
Absurd  as  this  excitement  seemed  to  a  Northern  man,  so  cruel  to  the 
horses,  and  so  little  profitable  to  the  spectators,  it  was  not  difficult  to 
read  it  as  a  text  from  the  old  book  of  human  nature.  From  the  very 
beginning,  the  rivalries  of  men  and  nations  have  turned  more  upon 
the  pride  of  conquest  than  the  prize  contested,  and  whether  for  an 
oaken  crown  or  a  silver  cup,  whether  upon  the  race-course  or  the  bat- 
tle-field, it  is  the  name  more  than  the  game  that  is  played  for.  He 
that  would  moralize  largely  and  wisely  about  a  horse-race  would 
come  to  some  very  sweeping  conclusions  regarding  the  whole  system 
of  competition  that  rules  over  society,  and  strike  hard  at  the  habits 
of  many  very  grave  people. 

The  social  elements  that  presented  themselves  to  a  stranger's 
observation  in  various  circles,  were  in  many  respects  of  the  most 
heterogeneous  kind,  yet  seemed  all  pervaded  by  the  same  stirring 
leaven.  The  Ncw-Englander  and  the  Englishman,  with  their  cool 
temperament,  caught  much  of  the  prevailing  tone  of  geniality,  without 
losing  their  characteristic  calculation.  One  of  the  most  delightful  and 
hearty  men  in  the  social  walk  was  an  English  gentleman  who  had 
come  out  to  seek  his  fortune  with  a  young  wife  and  slender  patri- 
mony in  that  then  far  country.  The  brother  of  one  of  our  most  ideal 
and  gifted  poets,  he  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  ideal  world  in  the  pro- 
saic business  of  a  lumber-merchant.  lie  was  always  ready  for  a  lite- 
rary conversation,  and  took  delight,  at  any  time,  in  turning  from  his 
ledger  to  his  liljrary,  and  from  numbers  arithmetical  to  numbers 
poetical.  I  never  meet  with  the  portrait  of  John  Keats  now,  without 
tracing  in  his  features  and  expression  a  memento  of  this  emigrant  bro- 
ther, who  never  ceased  to  prove  that  he  was  of  kindred  blood  to  the 
author  of  "Endymion"  and  "The  p]ve  of  St.  Agnes."  Tie  is  not  liv- 
ing now,  but  his  image  stands  in  my  memory  among  the  cherished 
forms  that  can  not  be  forgotten.  I  might  add  many  other  names  to 
the  list  of  notables,  but  it  is  enough  to  specify  one  person  more  whoso 
acquaintance  enlarged  my  knowledge  of  human  character. 


EIGHTEEN    YEARS.  49 

Judge  S was  a  noble  specimen  of  a  gentleman  of  the  old 

school — of  the  most  transparent  simplicity,  thorough  honesty  in  deed 
and  word,  and  unswerving  independence.     I  remember  well  the  first 
time  of  meeting  him.     His  quaint  old  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door 
of  our  lodgings,  and  the  vehicle  and  the  occupant  looked  like  speci- 
mens of  the  good  old  days  gone  by.     It  was  worth  a  thousand  miles' 
travel  to  receive  such  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  such  an  invitation  to 
visit  him  at  his  plantation.     His  eye  had  an  almost  feminine  mild- 
ness, yet  in  its  affectionate  expression  there  was  a  latent  manliness  as 
in  the  mild  blue  sky,  above  whose  transparent  depths  the  Sun-God  has 
his  throne,  and  can  thence  at  will  launch  his  arrows  at  their  mark. 
It  was  quite  a  new  phase  of  life  that  the  days  spent  on  his  plantation 
disclosed.     Never  have  I  seen  more  affection  between  the  various 
members  of  a  family  ;  never  a  more  earnest  purpose  to  be  just  and 
kind  in  every  social  relation.     The  Judge  was  no  admirer  of  slavery, 
and  if  the  counsels  of  such  men  as  he  had  prevailed,  the  curse  of  bond- 
age would,  ere  this,  have  been  erased  from  the  statute-book  of  Ken- 
tucky.    He  aimed,  so  far  as  the  laws  allowed  him,  to  abolish  slavery 
in  his  own  domain,  by  exchanging  servitude  for  service,  and  treating 
his  dependents  as  servants  to  be  protected.     They  looked  upon  him 
with  great  affection,  and  could  honestly  pray  that  he  might  live  a 
thousand  years.     When  an  absent  son  returned,  it  was  a  rare  sight  to 
see  the  welcome  of  him  by  the  slaves  the  morning  after  his  arrival. 
They  seemed  all  to  claim  kindred  with  him,  and  their  cordial  greeting 
to  Master  Josh  was  a  better  commentary  than  any  antiquarian  notes 
upon  the  redeeming  features  of  the  old  patriarchal  times.     In  becom- 
ing acquainted  with  the  slaves,  one  marks  quite  as  wide  differences  of 
character  as  among  their  prouder  lords.    I  found  in  the  two  who  took 
charge  of  the  horses,  genuine  representatives  of  characters  that  have 
stamjjcd  their  mark  upon  the  world's  history.     The  coachman  was  a 
thorough-going  mystic,  a  believer  in  visions  and  trances,  which  he 
interpreted  to  auditors,  who  listened  with  open  ears  and  distended 
eyes.    He  was  a  preacher,  as  he  and  his  admirers  thought,  of  heaven's 
own  ordaining ;  and,  although  occasionally  somewhat  given  to  excess- 
ive potations,  his  hearers,  with  an  aeuteness  equal  to  that  of  many 

pious  white  people   under  similar  circumstances,   carefully   distin- 

4 


ifO  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

guished  between  the  infirmities  of  the  man  and  the  inspirations  of  the 
saint.  The  hostler,  Cato,  was  of  sterner  school,  and  not  at  all  addicted 
to  mysticism,  or  any  kind  of  fixith  or  devotion.  He  was  the  skeptic 
of  the  plantation,  and  might  have  astonished  the  author  of  the  "Vesti- 
ges of  Creation"  by  his  constant  reference  of  remarkable  phenomena 
to  natural  causes.  When  Morocco,  the  coachman,  Avould  discourse  of 
the  foiling  stars  as  sure  signs  that  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end, 
Cato  would  contemptuously  shrug  his  shoulders,  and  say  that  it  was 
"  nothing  but  the  brimstone  in  the  air."  The  mystic  seemed  to  have 
more  followers  than  the  skeptic,  and  when  the  Judge  tried  to  enter- 
tain his  guests  by  excavating  an  Indian  mound  upon  his  plantation, 
and  evening  shut  in  before  the  close  of  the  labor,  the  sable  excavators 
evidently  inclined  to  ^Morocco's  opinion  that  the  wizard-hour  had 
come,  when  the  spirits  of  the  dead  Indians  haunted  their  graves,  and 
it  was  time  to  stop  working  there. 

Many  scenes  stand  associated  with  that  kindly  home.  One  fairy 
little  form  that  graced  the  house  and  garden  walks  I  can  never  forget ; 
the  bright  child  who  cheered  us  by  her  naive  prattle  and  her  sylph 
like  dance.  Her  form  lingered  like  a  benediction  upon  the  memory ; 
and  when  word  of  her  death  came  to  me,  years  afterward,  it  was  as  if 
one  of  the  lights  of  our  own  household  had  been  quenched.  When, 
in  the  March  of  1837,  I  left  Kentucky,  and  parted  with  so  many 
cherished  friends,  of  the  whole  circle  none  gave  more  brightness  to  the 
hope  of  a  return,  ere  long,  than  the  kindly  group  who  dwelt  under  the 
tall  trees  of  that  plantation,  and  day  by  day  received  the  good  judge's 
blessing.  My  course  was  homeward  to  New-England  by  the  circuit- 
ous Southern  route ;  and  in  the  five  days  after  the  departure,  every 
variety  of  climate  between  winter  and  summer  presented  itself,  until 
in  New-Orleans  I  found  fruits  and  flowers  in  abundance,  under  a  sky 
as  sultry  as  when  our  dog-star  rages.  In  due  season  I  returned  to 
New-England  to  find  its  forests  leafless,  its  gardens  still  waitnig  the 
footsteps  of  the  golden  summer  that  I  had  left  at  the  South.  Years 
passed,  and  with  them  passed  many  schemes  for  visiting  old  friends  at 
the  West  and  South.  Only  after  seventeen  years'  absence  the  oj)por- 
tunity  came,  and  I  have  just  returned  from  Kentucky  and  the  kindly 
city  of  L ,  which  I  saw  for  the  first  time  eightec  years  ago. 


EIGHTEEN    YEARS.  51 

Every  man  who  has  any  sort  of  affection  or  sentiment  is  glad  to 
re-visit  familiar  scenes ;  yet,  there  is  something  startling  in  the  return 
after  long  absence.  We  think  of  all  that  we  have  done  and  endured 
during  the  interval,  and  our  own  daily  life,  with  its  constant  yet 
almost  unnoticed  changes,  rises  up  before  us  in  its  united  experience ; 
so  that  a  man  sometimes  needs  to  go  away  from  home  to  see  himself 
as  he  is  and  has  been  in  his  own  home.  There  are  few  men  who  can 
look  upon  the  form  and  feature  of  a  score  of  years  thus  consolidated 
by  distance  without  some  grave  thoughts  upon  life  and  its  changes. 
We  tremble,  moreover,  as  we  draw  near  the  places  and  friends  so 
long  unvisited.  We  fear  that  we  have  been  shaping  an  ideal  world 
out  of  the  materials  stored  up  by  our  memory,  and  that  things  and 
persons  will  seem  wholly  strange  to  us.  We  fear  that  more  friends 
than  we  have  heard  of  have  passed  away,  and  that  they  who  remain 
will  not  remember  us  as  we  remember  them. 

When  our  steamer  drew  near  the  city  of  L ,  the  spires  of  some 

of  the  churches  were  familiar  to  my  eye,  and  the  whole  face  of  the 
country  seemed  to  answer  the  absentee's  grateful  recognition.  The 
city  had  more  than  doubled  its  population,  and  stretched  itself  out  on 
either  side  of  its  domain ;  yet  it  had  only  grown  in  stature,  without 
having  essentially  changed  its  features.  The  landing  was  crowded  by 
the  same  motley  throng  as, of  old,  and  it  is  only  when  the  stranger 
sees  the  new  squares  of  stately  houses  in  the  remoter  streets  that  he 
appreciates  the  growth  and  prosperity  of  the  place.  But  what  avails 
a  familiar  scene  if  there  is  no  welcome  from  a  femiliar  friend  1  It 
was  somewhat  remarkable  that  the  first  face  that  I  recognized  was  that 
of  the  son  of  my  kind  host  of  former  years,  the  good  Judge  ;  and  it 
was  cheering  to  learn,  from  our  ready  and  mutual  recognition,  that 
Father  Time  had  not  so  set  his  marks  upon  our  features  as  to  hide 
the  familiar  lineaments.  In  a  half-hour,  the  hearty  welcome  from  his 
sisters,  two  of  whom  kept  house  together  in  the  city,  was  ample  assur- 
ance that  the  light  of  other  days  had  not  died  out,  and  that  the  father's 
kind  heart  still  animated  the  children,  even  as  when  he  was  with  them 
in  the  body.  The  welcome  was  not  limited  to  the  parlor,  but  came  also 
from  the  tenants  of  the  kitchen.  The  old  farm-servants  were  not  indeed 
there,  and  Morocco  and  Cato,  with  many  of  their  associates,  had  gone 


52  THE    ATLANTIC    SOL'VEMR. 

to  the  land  where  the  law  of  color  and  caste  does  not  rule,  but  the 
omart  serving-maid,  who  had  grown  from  a  child  to  a  stout  woman 
during  the  interval,  seemed  to  have  some  remembrance  of  the  ancient 
guest  at  the  old  ])lantation ;  and  the  little  boy,  Bob,  who  presided  at 
the  brush,  grinned  with  all  his  might  when  I  talked  to  him  of  his  Uncle 
Morocco,  as  if  we  were  friends  and  kindred  at  once  by  that  tie  of 
association. 

Our  stay  in  the  city  was  a  succession  of  delightful  recognitions, 
deepened  yet  not  wholly  saddened  by  remembrances  of  those  who 
had  passed  aNVay.  Our  religious  services  renewed  all  the  best  asso- 
ciations of  former  years,  and  for  five  days  the  hours  were  too  few  for 
the  discourses,  devotions,  and  discussions  which  engaged  the  confer- 
ence of  worshippers,  met  together  from  so  many  States.  It  is  not  the 
place  to  describe  the  theological  aspects  of  the  occasion,  and  I  will  only 
give  a  description  or  two  of  social  experiences. 

An  observing  man  could  write  a  good  treatise  upon  the  chrono- 
logy of  the  human  features  or  the  traces  of  time  left  upon  the  human 
countenance  by  various  periods  of  years.  This  visit  has  given  a  far 
milder  idea  of  the  ravages  of  this  ruthless  power.  My  friends  who 
were  in  early  manhood  eighteen  years  ago  arc  now  in  their  prime ; 
their  look  is  the  same  as  then,  nay,  even  more  decidedly  pronounced, 
and,  like  Pat's  portrait,  "  more  like  than  the  original."  They  who 
were  in  the  meridian  then  are  now  of  more  venerable  mien,  yet  not 
one  such  face  had  any  trait  that  did  not  seem  familiar  and  agreeable. 
The  feminine  complexion  is  indeed  a  more  delicate  chronicle  of  times 
and  experiences ;  yet  the  many  buxom  mothers  in  whom  I  recognized 
the  sprightly  girls  of  eighteen  years  ago  were  but  the  same  flowers  in 
fuller  bloom ;  and  I  more  than  once,  in  view  ©fa  worthy  mother  with 
a  group  of  a  half-dozen  children  about  her,  was  reminded  of  the  favor- 
ite theory,  that  even  personal  beauty  is  more  a  moral  than  a  physical 
attribute,  and  ripens,  instead  of  dying,  with  years  of  faithful  service  to 
life's  true  ideal.  What  Dante  said  of  Beatrice  in  Paradise  is  true  of 
every  •woman  who  does  her  work  nobly  and  keeps  hor  soul  unspotted 
from  the  world.  There  is  a  "  second  beauty,"  even  fairer  than  the 
first — a  beauty  radiating  from  a  life  beyond  that  of  youthful  bloom. 


EIGHTEEN    YEARS.  53 

The  angels  are  calling  on  every  fair  woman  in  this  world,  as  upon 
Beatrice  in  the  spiritual  -world : 

"  '  Turn,  Beatrice  !'  was  their  song :  '  Oh  I  turn 
Thy  saintly  sight  on  this  thy  faithful  one. 
Gracious  at  our  prayer,  vouchsafe 
Unveil  to  him  thy  cheeks;  that  he  may  mark 
Thy  second  beauty,  now  concealed.'  " 

Setting  all  merely  poetic  sentiment  aside,  is  it  not  true  that  the 
beauty  that  most  transforms  the  character,  and  refines  and  softens  the 
husband  and  subdues  and  educates  the  child,  is  that  which  beams  from 
a  face  in  which  girlish  bloom  has  ripened  into  womanly  fidelity  and 
benignity?  Whilst  contesting  thus  the  boasted  empire  of  Time  over 
the  countenance,"  it  must  be  confessed  that,  in  one  respect,  his  trans- 
forming  power  was  most  startling.  In  seventeen  years,  the  infant  of 
the  cradle  grows  to  full  stature,  and  the  absentee  felt,  on  his  return, 
somewhat  of  a  Nestor  in  age  as  he  was  greeted  by  two  fair  girls  who 
were  babies  at  his  previous  visit,  and  who,  for  their  honored  and 
lamented  flither's  sake,  were  ready  to  receive  him  with  something  of 
filial  deference. 

One  scene  more  only  can  be  noted  —  a  re-visit  to  the  plantation 
of  our  old  friend  already  so  affectionately  named.  We  rode  out  —  a 
goodly  company  of  guests  —  to  that  house  so  memorable  for  its 
unstinted  hospitality.  The  Judge  was  not  there  to  welcome  us  with 
his  hearty  grasp  and  benign  eye.  His  daughter,  however,  fitly  honored 
her  name  and  breeding  as  she  welcomed  her  father's  friends.  Many 
changes  had  taken  place  in  the  grounds  on  account  of  the  division  of 
the  property  and  the  encroachments  of  the  city  upon  the  country ;  but 
the  house,  with  its  lofty  rooms,  was  the  same,  and  the  gateway  and 
broad  green-sward  of  the  great  avenue  were  as  of  old.  The  most  con- 
spicuous change  was  presented  by  the  family  burial-place,  now  inclosed 
by  a  massive  wall.  We  all  went  reverently  to  that  hallowed  ground. 
I  stood  over  the  grave  of  the  noble  father  and  the  dear  child,  the  pet 
of  the  former  visit,  who  gave  such  light  to  that  home,  and  blessed  God 
for  the  treasure  of  such  a  remembrance  and  such  a  hope.  The  myrtle 
covered  those  graves  with  its  rich  and  aromatic  growth,  and  birds  of 


54  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

many  hues  and  notes  sang  in  the  branches  of  the  trees.  A  vcncraVdf 
clergyman,  who  had  known  and  honored  the  good  Judge,  spoke  words 
of  consolation  to  the  large  company  of  children,  grand-children  and 
friends,  and,  loaning  upon  his  staff,  lifted  his  voice  in  prayer.  But 
even  this  touching  ministration  added  little  to  the  pathos  of  that  scene. 
The  place,  with  those  tomb-stones,  was  enough  and  more  than  enough. 
I  could  hardly  listen  to  language  touching  and  spiritual  as  that  which 
sought  so  fitly  to  consecrate  that  sun-set  hour  among  the  dead.  Those 
buried  ones  spoke  to  me  with  a  living  voice  that  rose  above  the  sad 
dirges  chanted  by  the  shades  of  all  those  intervening  years.  From 
the  midst  of  that  garden  of  graves,  where  blooming  life  sprang  from 
the  decaying  dust,  a  voice  from  the  unseen  world  repeated  the  great 
prophet's  saying : 

"  The  grass  withereth,  tho  flower  fadeth : 
But  the  word  of  our  God  shall  stand  for  ever." 

The  years  that  had  gone  since  meeting  those  cherished  friends  seemed 
to  rise  before  me,  and  to  chant  a  requiem  which  mingled  the  solem- 
nity of  memory  with  the  cheerfulness  of  hope. 


Jitttiqiu  girge. 


T     O     D     D     A     B     ^  , 


We  are  bent  with  age  and  cares, 
In  the  last  of  our  gray  hairs, 
And  we  lean  upon  our  staffs, 
Looking  for  the  epitaphs ; 
For  we  are  the  last,  ihe  last, 
In  the  ruins  of  the  Past  1 

When  our  youth  was  in  its  prime, 

Then  it  was  a  merry  time ; 

Suns  were  golden,  stars  were  bright^ 

And  the  moon  was  a  dehght ! 

And  we  wandered  in  its  beams, 

In  the  sweetest,  sweetest  dreams ! 

Noiv  our  dreams  are  fled, 

For  the  happy  Past  is  dead, 

And  we  feel  it  lived  in  vain, 

And  will  never  come  again ! 

No !  't  is  gone  1  and  gone  each  trace 

Of  its  once  familiar  face : 

Even  the  dust  to  which  we  yearn 

Lost,  and  lost  its  very  urn ! 

Nothing  remains  except  its  tomb ; 

(The  earth,  and  neaven  so  draped  with  clouds!) 
And  we  who  wander  in  its  gloom. 

And  soon  wiU  need  our  shrouds, 
So  pale  are  we,  and  so  aghast. 
At  the  absence  of  the  Past  1 


66  THE    ATI-AXTIC    SOUVENIR. 

We  had  firiends  when  wo  were  young, 

And  wo  shared  their  smiles  and  tears 
But  they  are  for  ever  flown ; 
"We  can  only  weep  alono 

In  the  shadow  of  tho  years  I 
Roses  come  again  with  sprhig; 
(We  are  standing  on  the  tomb, 
But  beneath  our  feet  they  bloom !) 
And  tho  summer  birds  do  sing  I 
But  tho  dead,  who  loved  tliem  so, 
They  are  in  tho  winter  snow  ; 
/ar  from  birds,  and  far  from  flowers, 
And  this  weary  life  of  ours  I 
All  is  over  I     Naught  remains, 
Save  the  memoiy  of  our  pams. 
And  the  years  tliat  bear  us  fast 
To  the  silence  of  the  Pastl 


31  ^er^nah. 


There  's  a  door  in  your  chamber,  lady  mine; 

1,  the  king,  have  the  key ; 
There 's  a  walk  in  our  garden's  deepest  shades 

For  you,  sweet,  and  me  I 

Wo  are  royal  and  distant  by  day, 
When  the  world  is  in  sight ; 

But  at  night  wo  havo  hearts,  and  we  love, 
And  are  happy  at  night  I 

Not  a  lamp  now  remains,  lady  mine  I 

All  is  still :  let  us  rise : 
I  can  track  you  by  tho  beat  of  your  heart, 

And  the  light  of  your  oyos  I 

rhrough  tho  dusk  of  tho  lindens  we  '11  glide 

To  that  alley  of  ours. 
And  walk  in  tho  light  of  tho  moon, 

And  tho  odor  of  flowers  1 


^n  f  ;ilie  |tgin. 


A     B     O     K     »    T 


The  excursion  of  June,  1854,  up  the  Northern  Mississippi,  in  honor 
of  the  completion  of  the  Rock-Island  and  Chicago  Railroad,  and  bv 
invitation  of  the  contractors  of  that  road,  was  on  a  scale  quite  unpar- 
alleled in  the  history  of  similar  celebrations.  Some  seven  hundred 
guests,  chiefly  from  the  Atlantic  States,  were  freely  transported  an 
immense  distance  to  view  the  last  railroad  link  between  the  Atlantic 
and  the  Mississippi,  and  to  enjoy  an  excursion  by  steamboat  from  the 
point  of  termination  on  the  river  up  to  the  new  and  wondrous  city  of 
St.  Paul,  in  Minnesota,  and  thence  to  Fort  Snelling,  and  by  land  to 
the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony. 

The  river  trip  was  accomplished  between  Monday  evening  and  the 
next  Saturday  morning ;  the  boats  stopping  at  Galena  and  Dubuque 
on  the  upward  passage.  Above  Dubuque  the  scenery  begins  to  open 
upon  the  voyager  in  forms  of  singular  beauty.  The  bluffs  grow  higher 
and  more  precipitous ;  and  the  remarkable  sand-stone  protrusions,  so 
characteristic  of  the  banks  of  the  Upper  Mississippi,  begin  to  appear. 

At  one  point  it  requires  no  exaggeration  of  fancy  to  trace  the  out- 
lines of  a  ruined  castle ;  while,  at  another,  you  see  a  solitary  tower, 
and  then  the  serrated  embrasures  of  a  deserted  battlement.  The  boat 
glides  on,  and  now  from  the  steep  slope  of  a  bluff,  clothed  in  richest 
verdure,  as  if  it  had  been  kept  under  careful  cultivation,  you  see  the 
sand-stone  bare  in  a  single  central  spot,  and  taking  the  form  of  an 
ancient  cenotaph,  as  if  there  reposed  the  ashes  of  some  ante-diluvian 
monarch.  A  mile  or  two  farther  on,  and  the  broken  entablature  of  a 
Grecian  temple,  with  architrave,  frieze,  and  cornice,  and  resting  on 


5S  THF    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

two  or  three  dismembered  columns,  seems  set  in  a  wall  of  verdure, 
as  if  it  were  a  piece  of  subterranean  architecture,  exposed  by  the 
washing  away  of  the  earth,  which  had  then  been  sloped  and  terraced 
about  it  by  the  hand  <^art,  and  planted  with  the  finest  grasses,  while 
the  trees  were  so  distributed  as  to  impart  the  most  picturesque  effect. 
Indeed,  the  orchard-like  appearance  of  these  slopes,  sweeping  in  curves 
of  enchanting  beauty  to  the  water's  edge,  is  the  most  surprising  fea- 
ture in  the  landscape.  For  scores  of  miles  you  may  see  no  sign  of 
population,  and  yet  many  of  these  hills  appear  like  the  outskirts  of  a 
nobleman's  park,  carefiflly  kept  free  from  under-brush  and  matted 
vegetation,  and  rounded  by  some  landscape  gardener  to  gratify  the 
eye  of  taste.  Here  and  there  a  sort  of  dimple  is  scooped  in  the  hill ; 
or  you  see  two  noble  hills  nearly  meet  at  their  bases,  leaving  a  hol- 
low betweenfl^e  a  lap,  to  receive  the  treasures  of  fertility  which  the 
land  is  ready  to  pour  down.  The  charm  of  vegetation,  which  a  luxu- 
riant soil  imparts,  is  spread  like  a  mantle  over  these  bluffs.  You 
look  in  vain  for  a  bleak  or  barren  point.  When  the  bluffs  sink  on 
one  side  of  the  river,  they  reappear  on  the  other;  and  this  peculiarity 
continues,  with  a  few  exceptions,  (as  at  Lake  Pepin,)  till  you  roach 
the  pine  region  above  the  mouth  of  the  St.  Croix. 

A  hundred  miles  from  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony,  you  pass  through 
Lake  Pepin,  which  is  merely  an  expansion  of  the  Mississippi,  about 
twenty-four  miles  long,  and  from  two  to  four  miles  wide.  It  is 
rightly  named  a  lake,  however ;  as  the  characteristics  of  the  river  are 
here  greatly  modified.  There  is  no  perceptible  current.  The  low 
islands,  covered  with  rank  vegetation,  and  annually  overflowed  and 
abraded  by  the  brimming  river,  here  entirely  disappear.  There  is 
not  an  island  in  Lake  Pepin.  There  are  bluffs  on  both  sides,  which 
slope  down  cleanly  to  the  water's  edge,  leaving  a  narrow  rim  of  sand, 
but  no  marshy  bottom-land  between. 

At  one  point,  on  the  Wisconsin  shore,  the  bluffs  recede,  and  a 
beautiful  platform  of  land  extends  before  them,  dotted  with  trees. 
On  the  Minnesota  shore  the  line  of  bluffs  is  at  one  ])lac'o  tlirown  back 
to  make  way  for  a  prairie,  on  the  back-ground  of  which  Nature  has 
lavished  all  that  can  bo  imagined  of  the  picturesque  in  the  scenery  of 
hill   and  dale.     IIltc   and  tlu-ri'  along  tin-   sununit-line  of  majestic 


ON    LAKE    PEPIN.  59 

bluffs  you  see  a  single  row  of  trees  at  a  distance  of  several  feet  from 
one  another,  like  warriors  in  Indian  file. 

The  amenity  of  the  landscape  lends  to  it  an  indescribable  charm. 
On  Lake  George  you  see  bold  and  beautiful  hills,  wooded  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  interspersed  with  rocks  and  rugged  declivities  that 
contrast  with  the  pervading  verdure.  But  on  Lake  Pepin  you  see 
grandeur  putting  on  all  forms  of  beauty,  and  wearing,  under  all 
aspects,  a  smile.  Even  its  ravines  are  so  hollowed  and  smoothed 
that  every  rugged  feature  has  been  softened  down.  Its  charming  hill- 
sides are  such  as  the  imagination  of  Watteau  used  to  select  for  the 
pastoral  pic-nics  and  concerts  he  delighted  to  paint.  The  charm  of 
variety  is  not  wanting  to  these  slopes.  The  curves  and  undulations 
of  verdure  assume  every  fanciful  and  delightful  form ;  now  sweeping 
so  as  to  create  a  regular  amphitheatre  between  two  high  bluffs ;  now 
sinking  into  basins;  now  sparsely  dotted  with  trees;  now  entirely 
bare  of  trees,  and  richly  carpeted  with  grass ;  now  crowned  with 
noble  forests ;  and  now  rising  into  a  perpendicular  and  precipitous 
wall  of  sand-stone. 

On  our  northward  trip,  we  passed  through  Lake  Pepin  in  the 
night-time ;  so  that  we  could  not  see  much  of  its  scenery.  Three  of 
our  boats  were  lashed  together,  and  thus  proceeded  along  the  whole 
length  of  the  lake,  exhibiting  to  any  stray  occupant  of  the  shore  a 
startling  and  fiery  spectacle.  On  our  return  we  were  more  fortunate. 
We  entered  upon  Lake  Pepin  at  the  dawn  of  a  beautiful  day. 
Toward  the  southern  extremity  of  the  lake  we  saw  the  high  bluff,  with 
its  sand-stone  pinnacle,  known  as  the  Maiden's  Rock.  It  was  my 
fortune  to  be  standing  on  the  hurricane-deck,  with  my  foot  upon  a 
life-preserving  stool,  and  my  elbow  leaned  upon  my  knee,  when  some 
of  my  lady  acquaintances  of  the  excursion  broke  in  upon  my  contem- 
plations. 

"  We  have  come  to  you,"  said  one,  "  for  the  authentic  version  of 
the  legend  which  gives  to  that  rock  its  name.  Please  to  sit  down, 
and  tell  it  like  a  faithful  chronicler." 

"Authorities  differ,"  said  another,  "as  to  whether  the  maiden, 
who  threw  herself  from  the  rock,  had  a  lover ;  now  I  insist  upon  it 
that  she  had." 


60  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVENIR. 

"  Please  to  be  seated,  ladies,  and  you  shall  hear  the  whole  story ; 
although  it  is  many  years  since  I  received  it  from  a  Sister  of  Charity 
at  Montreal." 

'•  But  I  insist  upon  it  that  a  lover  must  be  introduced,"  said  lady 
number  two. 

"  We  can  not  promise,"  said  I ;  "  for  the  story  will  come  to  my 
recollection  only  by  degrees,  as  I  go  along.     What  shall  we  call  it?'^ 

"  Call  it,"  said  the  first  lady,  hesitatingly,  "  call  it 

"22l£-no-na's  ^loch." 

"  We-no-na's  Rock  it  shall  be." 

Know,  then,  that  many  years  ago,  shortly  before  the  indefatigable 
Jesuit  missionaries  had  penetrated  this  country,  or  given  to  this  beau- 
tiful lake  the  name  of  that  old  king  of  the  Franks,  which  it  bears,  the 
Dahcotahs  or  Sioux  Indians  occupied  the  region  now  partly  included 
within  the  limits  of  Minnesota  and  Wisconsin. 

The  Dahcotahs  were  confederated  bands,  sub-divided  into  clans, 
and  they  differed  from  the  Indians  east  of  the  Mississippi  in  relying 
more  exclusively  for  their  support  upon  hunting  the  bison.  They 
were  a  fierce,  aggressive  people,  and  so  improvident,  that  periods  ot 
famine  among  them  were  quite  common.  On  such  occasions  they 
would  suddenly  break  up  their  settlements  and  move  to  distant 
hunting-grounds,  leaving  their  infirm  old  men,  who  were  unable  to 
travel,  behind  to  perish. 

On  a  cold  day  in  January,  on  the  edge  of  the  clump  of  trees  which 
you  see  a  short  distance  back  from  the  Maiden's  Rock,  an  old  Indian 
mi"ht  have  been  seen  cowering  about  a  fire.  Ish-te-nah  had  been  left 
to  die.  Ilis  people,  driven  by  hunger,  had  gone  west  in  search  of  the 
bison.  A  small  pile  of  wood,  some  morsels  of  food,  a  hatchet,  a  bircheu 
vessel,  filled  with  water,  and  a  bow  and  arrows,  were  by  his  side ;  and 
a  few  stakes,  covered  with  deer-skins,  disposed  in  a  cone-like  shape, 
formed  the  wigwam  for  his  shelter  and  repose.  The  ground  was 
covered  with  snow,  and  the  wind  blew  keenly  from  the  north-west. 

"  Go,  my  children,"  the  old  man  had  said,  when  some  seemed  to 
hesitate  in  their  act  of  desertion  ;  "  go  where  you  can  got  food.  Leave 
me  to  the  Great  Spirit's  care.    At  the  best  I  have  but  a  brief  while 


ON   LAKE    PEPIN.  61 

to  live.  I  should  be  a  burthen  and  a  delay  to  you  if  you  attempted 
to  take  me  with  you.  Your  women  and  young  people  must  be  pro- 
vided for.     Go !" 

And  Ish-te-nah  was  left  alone.  Although  he  had  made  a  virtue 
of  necessity,  and  exhibited  the  characteristic  stoicism  of  his  race,  in 
insisting  upon  thus  being  deserted,  he  could  not  repress  the  bitter 
thoughts  that  visited  him  as  the  last  lingerers  disappeared  from  his 
feeble  gaze.  He  recalled  the  times  when  he  had  rallied  his  people  to 
a  victorious  onset,  or  saved  them  from  a  well-laid  ambush,  or  brought 
them  off  safely  fl-om  the  assault  of  superior  numbers.  He  recalled 
his  achievements  in  the  chase,  and  the  occasions  when,  by  foresight 
and  energy,  he  had  averted  calamities  like  the  present.  And  after 
all  his  benefits  to  his  tribe,  here  was  his  reward. 

As  he  was  indulging  in  these  repining  retrospections,  he  was 
startled  by  the  sound  of  crackling  snow,  and  the  next  moment  an 
Indian  girl  stood  panting  before  him. 

"  We-no-na !  What  brings  you  here  V  said  the  old  man.  "  Do 
not  linger,  or  you  will  miss  your  people's  track.  Already  the  drift- 
ing snow  may  have  covered  it." 

"  I  do  not  care.  T  stay  here,"  said  "We-no-na,  throwing  some  dry 
boughs  on  the  fire. 

"  V/ould  the  young  fawn  perish  like  the  old,  disabled  buck  1 
What  moves  We-no-na  to  this  desperate  resolve  1" 

"  Father,  they  would  wed  me  to  the  chief  Ha-o-kah ;  and  I  detest 
him." 

"  In  other  words,  you  love  some  younger  man  of  the  tribe." 

"  I  love  no  man,  young  or  old ;  unless  it  be  you,  fiither,  from 
whom  I  have  always  had  kindness." 

"  Go,  foolish  fawn !     Ha-o-kah  is  as  good  as  most  husbands." 

"  I  would  sooner  die  than  have  a  husband,  if  all  are  like  those  of 
the  Dahcotahs,"  exclaimed  We-no-na  energetically.  "How  much 
better  is  a  wife  treated  than  a  dog  1  Look  at  my  mother  !  See  her 
staggering  under  heavy  burthens,  while  her  husband  carries  no  more 
than  will  keep  him  warm.  '  The  wife  must  cut  the  tree,  peel  the  bark, 
build  the  hut,  sew  the  skins,  paddle  the  canoe,  and  cook  the  food. 
She  must  do  every  menial  thing,  while  the  husband  looks  on  in  idle 


62  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVE.VIR. 

ness.  All  this  I  could  bear,  if  she  had  good  treatment  after  it.  But 
then,  when  her  drudgery  is  over,  she  must  be  beaten,  or  have  a  stick 
of  wood  thrown  at  her  head.  Yesterday  my  mother  was  beaten  for 
not  beating  me  hard  enough,  because  I  said  I  would  die  sooner  than 
marry,  and  so  I  would  !" 

"  Tlie  Indian's  is  a  bad  life,"  said  the  old  man.  "  What  you  say 
is  true.  Indian  women  arc  slaves ;  and  Indian  old  men  arc  aban- 
doned, as  I  am,  to  die." 

"Father,  you  shall  not  die  if  I  can  help  it.  I  will  build  your  fire, 
peel  bark  to  improve  your  shelter,  and  break  holes  in  the  ice  to  catch 
fish." 

For  a  moment  the  old  man's  Indian  apathy  was  melted,  and  a 
estrange,  unwonted  feeling,  which,  a  little  more  indulged,  would  have 
brought  tears  to  his  eyes,  stole  through  his  breast. 

"  We-no-na  deserves  a  better  husband  than  any  Dahcotah  would 
make,"  said  the  old  man.  "  It  is  hard  to  speak  against  one's  own 
nation ;  but  what  I  have  seen,  I  have  seen.  We-no-na  does  not 
desire  to  be  a  slave,  and  so  she  will  go  unwedded." 

"Father,  I  would  willingly  toil  like  a  slave,  if  there  were  loving 
words  and  looks  to  repay  me ;  but  the  angry  threat,  the  blow,  the 
contempt  of  a  man  is  more  than  I  can  submit  to.  I  think  the  Great 
Spirit  has  made  me  different  from  other  Dahcotah  women." 

Saying  this,  We-no-na  seized  the  hatchet,  and  treading  lightly  and 
fleetly  over  the  snow  toward  that  grove  of  oak  which  you  see  in 
the  direction  of  the  north-west,  cut  a  bundle  of  dry  boughs,  and 
brought  them  to  the  fire.  The  old  man  and  maiden  then  partook  of 
a  frugal  meal  of  dried  venison ;  and  when  the  night  came  on,  one 
of  them  watched  the  fire  while  the  other  slept. 

The  next  morning  We-no-na  crossed  the  lake  on  the  ice  to  tkat 
bluff  with  the  bowl-like  hollow  on  its  front,  to  reconnoitre.  What 
was  her  joy  on  discovering  traces  of  deer!  She  had  brought  the 
old  man's  bow  and  arrows  with  her,  and  she  resolved  to  lie  in  wait  for 
the  game  on  which  not  only  her  own  life,  but  another's,  seemed  now  to 
depend.  Her  vigilance  was  soon  repaid.  A  noble  deer  came  bt)und- 
ing  by  toward  an  oak  opening  which  lies  just  back  of  the  bluff.  With 
beating  heart  We-no-na  fixed  the  arrow  in  the  string,  and  without 


ON   LAKE    PEPIN.  63 

pausing,  shot  it  at  the  animal.  Leaping  high  in  the  air,  he  fell,  and 
crimsoned  the  snow  with  his  life-blood.  "  Surely,"  thought  We-no- 
na,  "  the  good  spirit  who  dwells  in  svoods  has  befriended  me ;"  for 
this  was  the  first  deer  she  had  ever  killed.  With  great  labor  she 
dragged  the  carcase  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  and  rolled  it  dovni  over 
the  icy  crust  to  the  frozen  lake.  It  would  have  been  hard  work  for  a 
strong  man  to  pull  it  over  the  ice,  and  up  to  the  little  encampment 
back  of  We-no-na's  rock.  But  this  she  did,  greatly  fearing  the 
while  lest  the  wolves  should  interrupt  her  in  the  task. 

Old  Ish-te-nah's  eyes  sparkled  when  he  saw  what  the  maiden  had 
accomplished. 

"  Here  is  enough,"  he  said,  "  to  keep  you  from  starving  till  the 
spring." 

"  To  keep  us  both,  father,"  rejoined  We-no-na. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  but  said  nothing. 

"  What  would  my  fither  say  V  asked  We-no-na,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Should  I  leave  jou,  my  child,  trust  in  the  Great  Spirit,  and  be 
brave.     Wait  here  through  the  winter  as  long  as  3'ou  can  get  food 
and  warmth ;  but  do  not  tarry  after  you  have  plucked  the  first  ripe 
strawberry  in  the  summer.     Remember." 
We-no-na  promised  obedience. 

"And  go  east,  beyond  the  great  lakes,  to  the  country  of  the 
Algonquins,  where  you  will  find  the  pale-faces  of  whom  you  have 
heard,  and  who  will  teach  you  much  that  will  do  your  people  good, 
should  you  ever  return  to  them." 

We-no-na  bowed  her  head  in  acknowledgment  that  she  had  stored 
up  in  her  memory  all  that  the  old  man  had  enjoined.  She  then 
cooked  some  venison,  but  he  partook  sparingly,  and  bade  her  sleep, 
while  he  watched.  The  command  was  not  unwelcome  ;  for  she  had 
been  much  fiitigued  by  her  day's  work.  She  slept  profoundly  for 
some  hours,  then  started  up  suddenly,  waked  by  the  cold,  and  found 
that  the  fire  was  decaying  fast.  She  heaped  upon  it  some  more 
wood,  then  turning  to  Ish-te-nah,  said:  "  Father,  you  shall  now  take 
your  turn  to  sleep."  No  answer  came  from  him.  We-no-na  seized 
him  by  the  arm  :  it  was  cold  and  stiff.  The  soul  of  the  old  warrior 
had  departed. 


Gt  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVEXIK. 

The  maiden  sat  in  mute,  overpowering  affliction  for  many  hours. 
The  anguish  of  utter  bereavement  and  desolation  seemed  to  deprive 
her  even  of  the  relief  of  tears.  At  length  she  recalled  her  promises 
to  the  old  man.  She  found  a  place  under  a  high  snow-drift,  where 
the  ground  was  yet  unfrozen;  and  here  she  dug  a  grave,  and  deposited 
his  mortal  body.  And  it  was  not  Jill  all  this  was  done,  and  the  snow 
had  been  replaced  over  the  spot  of  interment,  and  the  fire  had  been 
heaped  anew  with  wood,  that  tears  and  lamentations  found  vent  with 
We-no-na. 

But  the  grief  of  the  young  and  healthy  is  like  a  flesh-wound  that 
befalls  them:  it  soon  heals.  Left  entirely  to  her  own  resources, 
"We-no-na  found  hourly  occupation  for  her  hands  and  thoughts,  and  at 
ni"ht  slept  so  profoundly  that,  on  waking,  she  often  could  not  remem- 
ber that  she  had  even  dreamed.  She  enlarged  the  little  wigwam  so 
as  to  make  quite  a  neat  apartment,  well  roofed,  and  with  a  floor  of 
bark,  on  which  was  spread  the  skin  of  a  bison.  By  laying  large  strips 
of  bark  sloping  against  the  trees  to  which  her  wigwam  was  bound,  she 
made  a  safe  place  for  the  deposit  of  the  venison  and  other  provisions. 
She  constructed  a  canoe  in  anticipation  of  the  river's  melting  in  the 
spring ;  and  out  of  the  deer-skin  she  made  moccasins  and  belts.  And 
then  a  good  part  of  the  day  was  occupied  in  cutting  and  bringing  in 
wood ;  so  that  We-no-na  had  little  time  for  idle  or  desponding  f-iu- 
cies.^  Occasionally,  -vi-lien  the  wind  howled,  and  the  snow  whirled  in 
wild  eddies  over  the  bluff",  she  would  sit  and  fee^  the  fire  for  hours, 
and  then  strange  thoughts  would  visit  her ;  and  the  consciousness  of 
her  lonely  situation  would  press  upon  her  heavily.  But  she  was 
naturally  cheerful  and  hopeful;  and  her  day-dreams  were  oftener 
bright  tli;in  gloomy.  She  was  saddest  when  she  thought  of  a  little 
sister,  who  had  died  the  winter  before.  But  one  night  she  dreamed 
that  little  We-liar-ka  cmne  to  her  lonely  wigwam,  and  promised  to 
lead  her  in  good  time  to  a  land  more  beautiful  than  any  she  had  yet 
seen,  where  there  were  birds  and  fruits  all  the  year  round,  and  M'here 
no  violence  was  done,  and  no  harsh  M'ords  were  spoken.  After  this, 
We-no-na  was  more  content,  and  she  loved  to  recall  all  the  particu 
lars  of  her  dream.  There  were  little  brothers  whom  she  had  been 
obliged  to  leave  in  deserting  her  people.     And  did  not  We-no-nu 


ON   LAKE   PEPIN.  65 

grieve  for  them  ?  Alas !  like  all  Indian  boys,  they  had  been  bred  up 
to  treat  their  sisters  with  contempt  and  ignominy ;  and  the  effects  of 
a  vile  education  had  been  such  as  to  blunt  their  natural  affections,  and 
to  make  them  regard  the  fraternal  sentiment  as  a  weakness  which  no 
boy  who  hoped  to  become  a  great  warrior  ought  to  entertain. 

The  winter  months  had  never  seemed  to  We-no-na  less  tedious. 
March,  with  its  cold  blasts,  and  April,  with  its  torrents  of  rain,  had 
passed ;  and  the  south  wind  unlocked  the  fettered  Mississippi,  and  the 
blue  waters  of  Lake  Pepin  again  sparkled  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
verdure  began  to  creep  over  bluff  and  prairie,  and  the  delicate  foliage 
to  fringe  the  trees,  and  bright  flowers  to  open  amid  the  springing  grass 
and  by  the  border  of  the  groves.  We-no-na's  winter  experiences  had 
given  her  a  feeling  of  independence  and  self  reliance,  which  was  in 
itself  a  great  source  of  happiness.  Never  before  had  she  known  the 
true  luxury  of  freedom.  If  heretofore  she  had  roamed  the  prairie,  oi 
paddled  the  canoe,  it  was  but  to  anticipate  her  degradation  the  mo- 
ment she  should  enter  the  filthy  hovels  where  her  people  were  herded. 
She  had  a  womanly  sense  of  neatness,  which  now  she  could  indulge 
unchecked.  She  delighted  in  nature,  and  her  delight  was  now 
unmarred  by  embittering  associations.  She  grew  in  stature  and  in 
beauty,  and  in  strength  and  fleetness;  and  as  she  snuffed  the  pure 
morning  breeze,  and  saw  the  sun  crimsoning  the  eastern  clouds,  or  as 
she  looked  up  to  the  starry  heavens,  or  to  the  coruscations  of  the 
Aurora  by  night,  she  would  exclaim:  "Yes,  the  Great  Spirit  is 
generous  and  good ;  it  is  man  only  who  is  bad,  and  who  spoils  the 
gifts  that  are  lavished  on  his  race !" 

It  was  one  of  the  last  days  of  May,  when,  as  "We-no-na  was 
descending  to  that  beautiful  prairie,  where  the  little  house  now  stands, 
she  saw  a  red  strawberry  amid  the  grass,  and  plucked  it.  She  then 
remembered  Ish-te-nah's  injunction,  and  walked  musingly  back  to  her 
wigwam.  It  was  almost  with  a  pang  of  regret  that  she  prepared  to 
leave  this  beautiful  region.  All  the  means  of  subsistence  seemed  so 
abundant  around  her ;  earth,  air,  and  water  seemed  so  kind  in  render- 
ing up  their  stores ;  and  then,  as  summer  came  on,  the  whole  land- 
scape was  clothed  in  such  affluent  beauty ;  the  verdant  bluffs  swept  in 

such  graceful  curves  to  the  water's  edge;   and  the  distant  prairie 

5 


^6  THE   ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

began  to  heave  its  sparkling  waves  of  green  so  luxuriantly  t  But 
might  there  not  be  fair  spots  eastward  of  the  lake  ?  She  would  go,  as 
Ish-te-nah  had  recommended ;  but  first  she  would  collect,  as  a  memo- 
rial, some  of  the  beautiful  stones  scattered  along  the  shore. 

These  stones,  as  you  are  aware,  arc  agates  and  cornelians ;  and 
Lake  Pepin  has  yielded  them  in  abundance  for  many  years. 

We-no-na  descended  and  ran  along  the  shore  as  far  as  the  point 
we  are  now  skirting.  She  would  stop  here  and  there  to  pick  up  a 
handful  of  agates,  and  then,  as  she  saw  others  more  beautiful,  she 
would  throw  aside  those  she  had  gathered,  and  replace  them  with  new 
treasures.  She  was  thus  lured  on  to  wander  several  miles ;  and  the 
evening  twilight  was  far  advanced  before  she  regained  her  wigwam. 
It  was  now  too  late  to  start  upon  her  pilgrimage.  No  matter ;  she 
would  commence  it  early  the  next  morning. 

"When  morning  came,  there  were  many  preparations  to  make; 
and  the  sun  had  been  up  a  couple  of  hours  before  she  had  set  forth  on 
her  journey.  She  carried  her  canoe  fastened  by  a  strap  to  her  back, 
her  hatchet  and  arrows  in  her  belt,  and  provision  for  several  days  in 
a  pouch  of  deer-skin  that  hung  at  her  side.  What  was  her  dismay, 
after  descending  the  hill  and  passing  through  yonder  little  belt  of 
woodland,  on  coming  suddenly  upon  an  Indian  enc^impmcnt!  She 
paused,  hoping  to  retreat  unseen;  but  this  was  now  impossible. 
Several  Indians  started  up  and  approached  her,  and  a  second  glance 
was  not  needed  to  assure  her  that  among  them  she  saw  her  father 
and  mother  and  her  hated  suitor,  Ila-o-kah.  This  worthy  chief  had 
made  the  lives  of  the  old  people  somewhat  uncomfortable  from  his 
repeatedly  twitting  them  with  the  fact  that  he  had  bought  their 
daughter  of  them  twice  over,  and  been  cheated  out  of  the  purchase. 
As  Ila-o-kah  had  no  small  degree  of  influence  in  the  tribe,  the  old 
couple  felt  very  uneasy  at  their  daughter's  dereliction,  it  having 
placed  them  in  the  position  of  debtors  to  one  who  evidently,  by 
his  frequent  taunts  and  dunning,  was  not  disposed  to  let  them  sleep 
over  the  debt  they  had  incurred. 

There  was,  consequently,  an  exclamation  of  general  surprise  and 
satisfaction  at  the  appearance  of  We-no-na.  Her  first  act  was  to 
disencuraber  herself  of  her  canoe,  and  every  thing  that  could  impede 


ON    LAKE   PEPIN.  67 

her  flight.  She  then  placed  an  arrow  in  the  string  of  her  bow,  and, 
retreating  a  few  steps,  called  upon  the  approaching  party  to  stop. 
There  was  something  so  imperious  in  her  tone  that  they  instantly 
obeyed.  She  then  briefly  told  them  that  she  had  withdrawn  from 
her  tribe ;  that  she  looked  to  none  of  them  for  support ;  and  that 
she  wished  to  be  alone.  To  this  her  father  replied  in  violent  lan- 
guage, ordering  her  to  come  to  him.  She  refused  by  a  significant 
gesture.  He  ran  forward  to  meet  her,  but  she  soon  doubled  the 
distance  between  them.  With  true  Indian  craft,  he  then  changed 
his  policy,  and  asked  We-no-na  whiningly  if  she  would  not  come 
to  her  dear,  affectionate  parents'?  At  the  same  time,  We-no-na 
could  see  him  threaten  her  mother  with  his  hatchet,  bidding  her 
to  join  in  his  entreaties  and  lamentations.  This  the  old  woman 
readily  did.  But  We-no-na  was  inexorable.  Then  the  amiable 
Ha-o-kah  approached ;  but  as  We-no-na  aimed,  or  pretended  to  aim, 
an  arrow  at  him,  he  dodged  behind  a  bush,  and  begged  her  to  hear 
him.  This,  she  assured  him,  she  would  do  if  he  would  stay  where  he 
was.  Ha-o-kah  then  informed  her  that  he  had  bought  her  in  fail 
trade  of  her  parents,  and  that  in  common  honesty  she  ought  to  come 
and  be  his  wife ;  he  told  her  that  he  had  but  three  wives,  all  of  whom 
were  happy  women ;  he  had  been  very  successful  in  hunting,  and  had 
collected  a  good  number  of  skins,  beside  a  quantity  of  bear's-grease ; 
he  had  also  taken  the  scalp  of  a  Pawnee,  and  stolen  a  horse ;  in  short, 
there  was  not  a  young  woman  in  the  tribe  who  would  not  be  proud 
of  the  position  he  now  offered  to  the  disdainful  We-no-na. 

We-no-na,  leaning  scornfully  on  her  bow,  replied :  "  Thief  of  a 
Dahcotah,  your  wife  I  will  never  be !  You  say  you  have  but  three  : 
there  was  a  fourth,  who  died  of  a  blow  from  her  husband.  What  a 
brave  he  must  be !  There  is  another,  who  is  blind  of  an  eye.  How 
did  she  lose  it,  O  great  warrior,  with  your  one  scalp,  and  that,  I  will 
venture  to  say,  a  woman's  ?  Never  will  I  be  your  wife !  never  will  I 
be  one  of  your  people  again !  Go  vent  your  anger  upon  the  poor 
slaves  who  are  left  to  you,  and  be  content !" 

By  this  time  the  rage  of  Ha-o-kah  was  at  its  heignt ;  and,  regard 
less  of  danger,  he  rushed  forth  with  a  howl  to  seize  her  who  had 
dared  to  give  utterance  to  such  unwelcome  truths.     But  We-no-na, 


68  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

vigilant  as  a  wild-cat  and  swifter  than  the  deer,  gained  an  elevation 
from  which  she  again  aimed  an  arrow  at  her  pursuer.  He  threw 
himself  on  the  ground,  and  the  arrow  lodged  in  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
some  distance  behind.  With  a  yell,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  strained 
every  sinew  to  overtake  We-no-na;  but,  with  the  ease  and  grace  of  an 
antelope,  she  outran  him.  All  the  young  men  of  the  encampment 
were  by  this  time  in  full  chase ;  for  they  knew  that  they  need  expect 
no  grace  from  Ha-o-kah  unless  they  were  officious  in  assisting  him. 
We-no-na  ran  to  the  top  of  the  bluff,  where  her  wigwam  stood,  and 
threw  herself  panting  upon  a  bed  of  dry,  fragrant  grass,  that  she  had 
prepared  some  days  before.  She  had  rested  there  hardly  a  minute, 
when  the  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps  roused  her,  and,  springing  to 
her  feet,  she  saw  Ha-o-kah,  with  three  or  four  followers,  ascending  the 
hill-slope  from  the  south,  and  but  a  few  rods  distant.  In  a  frenzy  of 
indignation,  she  again  set  an  arrow  in  the  string,  and  exclaiming, 
"  This,  Ila-o-kah,  for  the  benefit  of  your  three  wives !"  shot  it  at  him 
before  he  had  time  to  turn  aside.  It  lodged  in  his  right  arm  above 
the  elbow,  disabling  it  materially  for  the  active  purposes  of  chastising 
his  wives  or  scalping  his  foes. 

The  pursuers  paused,  quite  confounded  at  this  audacious  shot ; 
but  Ha-o-kah,  with  a  scream  of  mingled  rage  and  pain,  bade  them 
proceed,  and  they  dashed  on  toward  the  summit  of  the  bluff.  As 
they  mounted  it,  they  beheld  We-no-na  at  the  very  edge  of  the 
fearful  precipice,  looking  back  upon  them  with  a  determined 
glance.  "  Brave  woman-chasers !"  she  exclaimed,  "  let  me  see  you 
follow !" 

And,  with  the  words,  she  sprang  from  the  cliff,  some  sixty  feet  far 
out  among  the  trees  that  slope  from  the  base  of  the  wall  of  rock 
toward  the  water;  and  before  her  pursuers  could  reach  the  edge 
of  the  precipice,  she  had  swung  herself  from  bough  to  bough  into 
the  river. 

There  was  an  exclamation  of  horror  and  surprise  from  Ha-o-kah 
and  his  young  men  as  they  witnessed  this  intrepid  leap.  No  one 
cared  to  risk  his  neck  by  imitating  it.  They  separated,  and  ran 
round  each  side  of  the  bluff  toward  the  base ;  but  to  their  amazement 
could  see  no  trace  of  We-no-na,     Was  it  possible  that  she  had  leaped 


ON   LAKE    PEPIN.  69 

SO  far  as  to  fall  into  the  water  ?  Incredible  as  this  seemed,  it  was  the 
conclusion  to  which  they  came. 

Poor  Ha-o-kah  was  a  good  deal  crest-fallen,  as,  with  his  wounded 
arm  in  a  sling,  he  rejoined  the  encampment.  His  three  wives  at  first 
exhibited  much  concern  on  seeing  him  wounded,  and  approached  him 
with  the  servility  he  habitually  exacted ;  but,  on  discovering  that  his 
arm  was  so  shattered  as  to  be  unfit  for  any  future  service,  the} 
taunted  him  with  his  misfortune,  and  manifested  a  wonderful  indif- 
ference to  his  sufferings.  He  looked  about  for  a  hatchet  to  throw  at 
one  of  them,  but  a  slight  motion  of  his  arm  reminded  him  of  his 
impotence,  and  he  changed  his  rough  tone  to  a  pleading  treble.  As 
his  influence  with  his  tribe  was  derived  chiefly  from  his  physical 
strength  and  skill,  and  not  from  his  wisdom  in  council,  he  at  once  fell 
into  insignificance,  and  soon  found  himself  restricted  to  a  single  wife, 
whom  he  never  spoke  to  but  in  terms  of  profound  respect. 

The  pursuers  all  reported  that  We-no-na  was  drowned :  it  would 
have  been  a  poor  compliment  to  their  speed  and  sagacity  to  suppose 
otherwise.  Almost  every  version  of  the  tradition  of  "We-no-na's 
Rock"  adopts  their  story.  But  it  does  not  follow  that,  because  they 
could  not  find  her,  she  was  drowned.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  in 
the  very  fact  a  presumption  that  she  escaped.  The  truth  is,  that 
We-no-na,  who  was  a  most  adroit  swimmer,  did  escape.  Swimming 
across  the  river,  she  concealed  herself  awhile,  and  then  took  u^)  her 
journey  toward  the  east.  She  crossed  the  territory  which  now  con- 
stitutes the  width  of  the  State  of  Wisconsin,  and  arrived  at  Green 
Bay  early  in  August.  Here,  at  the  point  where  Fort  La  Baye  was 
subsequently  erected,  she  found  a  French  exploring  party,  under  the 
conduct  of  several  Jesuit  missionaries.  She  attached  herself  to  it, 
and  soon  made  herself  useful. 

A  young  Parisian  of  education  and  refinement,  and  a  devout 
Catholic  withal,  named  La  Crosse,  was  seriously  ill  of  a  fever ;  and 
We-no-na  was  appointed  to  watch  and  nurse  him.  This  she  did 
with  so  much  patience  and  fidelity,  that  La  Crosse  was  seriously 
impressed ;  and  no  sooner  was  he  restored  to  health  than  he  informed 
Father  Duhesme  of  his  desire  of  espousing  We-no-na.  Tlie  worthy 
father  said  that  this  could  not  be  done  until  the  maiden  was  made  a 


10  THE    ATLANTIC    SOLVrN'IR. 

good  Catholic;  and  they  both  forthwith  applied  themselves  to  her 
conversion.  This  was  a  longer  process  than  they  anticipated.  It 
was  some  time  before  We-no-na  acquired  sufficient  French  to  under- 
stand their  purpose ;  and  then  she  had  so  many  posing  questions  to 
ask,  that  the  learned  missionary  frequently  thought  she  must  be 
especially  instigated  by  Satan  in  the  unlooked-for  difficulties  she 
raised. 

At  length  the  maiden's  intelligence  seemed  to  pierce  to  the  pith 
of  the  matter,  relieved  of  all  its  bewildering  husks,  forms,  and 
wrappings.  The  beauty  and  holiness  of  Christian  morality  dawned 
upon  her  benighted  soul,  and  reconciled  her  fully  and  cordially  to 
the  Christian  religion.  It  was  to  her,  in  truth,  a  revelation,  and 
was  received  in  earnestness  and  faith.  She  was  baptized  and  mar- 
ried. 

The  party  returned  soon  after  to  Montreal.  La  Crosse  became 
the  chief  man  of  one  of  the  beautiful  villages  on  the  St.  Lawrence. 
"We-no-na  adapted  herself  eagerly  to  the  habits  and  tastes  of  civilized 
life.  Sometimes,  as  the  happy  pair  sat  on  their  broad  piazza  amid 
roses  and  honeysuckle,  with  their  little  half  breeds  playing  before  them, 
La  Crosse,  to  make  his  wife's  eyes  flash  with  their  old  barbariim  fire, 
would  express  a  pretended  preference  for  the  freedom  of  savage-life, 
and,  sighing,  wish  that  they  were  among  the  Dahcotahs;  a  wish  which 
never  failed  to  call  forth  an  indignant  rebuke  from  "NVe-no-na.  On 
one  occasion  her  husband,  to  please  some  wandering  Iroquois,  daubed 
his  face  with  ochre,  grease,  and  charcoal,  threw  a  blanket  over  his 
shoulders,  decorated  his  head  with  feathers,  took  a  scalping-knife 
in  one  hand  and  a  tomahawk  in  the  other,  and,  with  genuine  French 
versatility,  joined  in  a  war-dance.  But  when  he  found  that  his  dis- 
guise disturbed  We-no-na,  so  that  she  wept  passionately,  he  threw  it 
aside,  never  to  resume  it. 

A  proud  woman  was  she,  when,  with  her  two  boys  and  a  little  girl, 
La  Crosse  first  drove  her  up,  in  a  painted  sledge,  to  the  little  Catholic 
church  where  Sunday  service  was  held.  No  wonder  that  the  emotion 
of  gratitude  surpassed  all  others  as  she  knelt  in  prayer.  A  still 
prouder  woman  was  she,  when  her  children  could  read  and  write, 
and  one  of  her  boys  attained  such  proficiency  on  the  bass-viol  that 


ON   LAKE    PEPIN.  71 

he  was  employed  by  the  priest  to  lead  the  choir  in  church.     They 
grew  up  a  bright  intelligent  race,  and  We-no-na  lived  to  see  them  all 
happily  settled  upon  adjoining  farms. 
And  this  is  the  end  of  "We-no-na's  Rock." 


BRANCACCI  CHAPEL,  FLOHENCE. 

BY    JAME8    RUSSELL    LOWTILL. 


He  came  to  Florence  long  ago, 

And  painted  here  these  walls,  •which  shone 

For  Raphael  and  for  Angelo 

"With  secrets  deeper  than  his  own ; 

Then  shrank  into  the  dark  again, 

And  died,  we  know  not  how  or  when. 

The  shadows  deepened,  and  I  turned 
Half-sadly  from  the  fresco  grand ; 
And  is  this,  mused  I,  all  ye  earned. 
High-vaunted  brain  and  cunning  hand, 
That  we  who  wonder  here  should  know 
This  single  word  —  Masaccio  ? 

And  who  were  they,  I  mused,  that  wrought 
Through  pathless  wilds,  through  hate  and  wrong, 
The  highways  of  our  daily  thought  ? 
Who  buUt  those  towers  of  eldest  song 
That  lift  us  o'er  the  world  to  peace, 
Remote,  'mid  starry, silences  ? 

Out  clanged  the  Avo-Mart  bells. 
And  to  my  heart  this  message  came: 
"  Each  clamorous  throat  among  us  tells 
What  strong-souled  martyrs  died  in  flame 
To  make  it  possible  that  thou 
Shouldst  here  with  brother-sinners  bow. 


14^  THE    ATLAyilC    SOCVEXIR. 

"  Thoughts  that  great  hearts  once  brake  for,  ye 
Breathe  painless  now  as  common  air; 
The  dust  j-e  trample  heedlessly 
Is  that  of  saints  and  heroes  rare 
Who  perished,  opening  for  their  race 
Paths  now  so  tame  and  common-place." 

Hencefortli,  when  nngs  the  health  to  those 
Who  live  in  story  and  in  song, 
0  nameless  dead,  that  now  repose 
Safu  in  Obhvion's  chambers  strong. 
One  cup  of  recognition  true 
Shall  silently  be  drained  to  you  I 


&t-- 


3i  Sag  at  ^l  f  d^im. 

FROM    THE    I06-B00K    OP     MY     HOMEWAUD    VOYAOE, 


BY    BATARD    TAYLOE. 


The  three  passengers  on  board  of  the  clipper-ship  Sea-Serpent, 
bound  from  Whampoa  to  New- York,  were  greatly  delighted  to  learn 
from  Capt,  Rowland,  on  the  day  when  they  crossed  the  tropic  of 
Capricorn,  that  the  water  was  gettmg  short,  and  he  had  therefore 
decided  to  touch  at  St.  Helena  for  a  fresh  supply.  We  had  already 
been  more  than  sixty  days  on  board,  and  the  sea,  with  all  its  wonder- 
ful fascination,  was  growing  monotonous.  Here  was  an  event  which, 
in  addition  to  its  positive  interest,  would  give  us  at  least  five  days  of 
anticipation  and  a  week  of  active  remembrance,  virtually  shortening 
our  voyage  to  that  extent ;  for  at  sea  we  measure  time  less  by  the 
calendar  than  by  our  individual  sense  of  its  duration.  I  have  spent 
several  months  on  shipboard,  when,  according  to  the  almanac,  barely 
a  fortnight  had  elapsed. 

The  trade-wind  bore  us  slowly  northward,  and  when  I  went  on 
deck  at  sunrise,  four  days  afterward,  St.  Helena  was  in  sight,  about 
twenty-five  \ni\es  distant.  It  was  a  dark-blue  mass,  filling  about 
twenty  degrees  of  the  horizon,  and  of  nearly  uniform  elevation  above 
the  sea,  but  gradually  resolved  itself  into  sharper  and  more  broken 
outlines  as  we  approached.  Except  upon  a  lofty  terrace  on  the 
southern  side,  where  there  was  a  tinge  of  green  and  some  traces  of 
fields,  the  coast  presented  a  frightfully  rocky  and  inhospitable  appear- 
ance. Nevertheless  it  displayed  some  grand  eff*ects  of  coloring.  The 
walls  of  naked  rock,  several  hundred  feet  high,  which  rose  boldly 


76  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

I'roni  the  sea,  in  some  places  overhanging  their  base,  were  tinted 

as  by 

"the  deep-blue  gloom 
Of  thunder-shower," 

the  hollow  chasms  between  them  being  filled  with  gorgeous  masses 
of  purple-black  shadow,  under  the  sultry  clouds  which  hung  over  the 
island.  At  the  south-eastern  extremity  were  two  pointed,  isolated 
rocks,  probably  a  hundred  feet  high.  We  stood  around  the  opposite 
extremity  of  the  island,  making  for  the  port  of  Jamestown,  which 
faces  the  north-west.  The  coast  on  this  side  rises  into  two  bold 
heads,  one  of  which  projects  outward  like  a  gigantic  capstan,  while 
the  other  runs  slantingly  up  to  a  pointed  top,  which  is  crowned  with 
a  signal  station.  The  rock  has  a  dark  bluish-slate  color,  with  streaks 
of  a  warm  reddish-brown,  and  the  strata,  burst  apart  in  the  centre,  yet 
slanting  upward  toward  each  other  like  the  sides  of  a  volcano,  tell  of 
upheaval  by  some  tremendous  subterranean  agency.  The  structure 
of  the  island  is  purely  volcanic,  and,  except  the  rock  of  Aden,  on  the 
coast  of  Arabia,  I  never  saw  a  more  forbidding  spot. 

The  breeze  increased  as  we  drew  near  the  island,  but  when  we 
ran  under  the  lee  of  the  great  cliffs,  ftll  away  almost  entirely,  so  that 
we  drifted  lazily  along  within  half  a  mile  of  them.  At  length  a  bat- 
tery hove  in  sight,  quarried  in  the  face  of  the  precipice,  and  anchored 
vessels,  one  by  one,  came  out  behind  the  point.  We  stood  off  a  little, 
urged  along  by  occasional  flaws  of  wind,  and  in  a  short  time  the  shal- 
low bight  which  forms  the  roadstead  of  St.  Helena  lay  before  us. 
There  was  another  battery  near  at  hand,  at  the  foot  of  a  deep,  barren 
glen,  called  Rupert's  Valley,  from  which  a  road,  notched  in  the  rock, 
leads  around  the  intervening  cliffs  to  the  gorge,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  Jamestown  is  built.  A  sea-wall  across  the  mouth  of  this  gorge, 
a  row  of  ragged  trees,  weather-beaten  by  the  gales  of  the  Atlantic, 
and  the  spire  of  a  church,  were  all  that  appeared  of  the  town.  The 
walls  of  the  fort  crowned  the  lofty  cliff  above,  and  high  behind  them 
towered  the  signal  station,  on  the  top  of  a  conical  peak,  the  loftiest  in 
the  island.  The  stone  ladder  which  leads  from  the  tower  to  the  fort 
was  marked  on  the  fjice  of  the  cliff  like  a  white  ribbon  unrolled  from 
its  top.     Inland,  a  summit  coviTcd  with  dark  pino-froos.  from  the 


A    DAY    AT    ST.    HELENA.  77 

midst  of  which  glimmered  the  white  front  of  a  country  mansion,  rose 
above  the  naked  heights  of  the  shore.  This  was  the  only  gleam  of 
fertility  which  enlivened  the  terrible  sterility  of  the  view. 

Further  in-shore  a  few  gun-boats  and  water-boats  lay  at  anchor, 
and  some  fishing-skiffs  were  pulling  about.  As  we  forged  slowly 
along  to  a  good  anchoring  ground,  the  American  consul  came  off,  fol- 
lowed by  a  boarding-officer,  and  we  at  once  received  permission  to  go 
ashore  and  make  the  most  of  our  short  stay.  The  consul's  boat 
speedily  conveyed  us  to  the  landing-place,  at  the  eastern  extremity  of 
the  town.  Every  thing  had  a  dreary  and  deserted  air.  There  were 
half-a-dozen  men  and  boys,  with  Portuguese  features  and  uncertain 
complexions,  about  the  steps,  a  red-coated  soldier  at  a  sentry-box,  and 
two  or  three  lonely-looking  individuals  under  the  weather-beaten 
trees.  Passing  a  row  of  mean  houses  built  against  the  overhanging 
rock,  a  draw-bridge  over  a  narrow  moat  admitted  us  within  the  walls. 
A  second  wall  and  gate,  a  short  distance  further,  ushered  us  into  the 
public  square  of  Jamestown.  Even  at  its  outlet,  the  valley  is  not 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  wide,  and  the  little  town  is 
crowded,  or  rather  jammed,  deep  in  its  bottom,  between  nearly  per- 
pendicular cliffs,  seven  or  eight  hundred  feet  in  height.  At  the  top 
of  the  square  is  the  church,  a  plain  yellowish  structure,  with  a  tall, 
square,  pointed  spire,  and  beyond  it  Market  street,  the  main  tho- 
roughfare of  the  little  place,  opens  up  the  valley. 

A  carriage  —  almost  the  only  one  in  Jamestown  —  was  procured 

for  Mrs.  H ;   my  fellow-passenger,  P ,  provided  himself 

with  a  saddle-horse,  and  we  set  out  for  Longwood.  We  had  a 
mounted  Portuguese  postillion  and  rattled  up  the  steep  and  stony 
main  street  in  a  style  which  drew  upon  us  the  eyes  of  all  Jamestown. 
The  road  soon  left  the  town,  ascending  the  right  side  of  the  ravine  by 
a  very  long  and  steep  grade.  Behind  the  town  are  the  barracks  of 
the  soldiery  and  their  parade-ground  —  all  on  a  cramped  and  con- 
tracted scale :  then  some  dreary  burial-grounds,  the  graves  in  which 
resembled  helps  of  cinders ;  then  a  few  private  mansions,  and  green 
garden-patches,  winding  upward  for  a  mile  or  more.  The  depth  and 
narrowness  of  the  gorge  completely  shut  out  the  air ;  the  heat  was 
radiated  powerfully  from  its  walls  of  black  volcanic  rock,  and  the 


78  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

bristling  cacti  and  yuccas  by  the  roadside,  with  full-crowned  cocoa 
palms  below,  gave  it  a  fiery,  savage,  tropical  character.  The  peak  of 
the  signal-station  loomed  high  above  us  from  the  opposite  side,  and 
now  the  head  of  the  ravine  —  a  precipice  several  hundred  feet  high, 
over  which  fell  a  silver  thread  of  water  —  came  into  sight.  This 
water  supplies  the  town  and  shipping,  beside  fertilizing  the  gardens 
in  the  bed  of  the  ravine.  It  is  clear  as  crystal,  and  of  the  sweetest 
and  freshest  quality.  Looking  backward,  we  saw  the  spire  of  the 
little  church  at  the  bottom  projected  against  the  blue  plain  of  ocean, 
the  pigmy  hulls  of  the  vessels  in  the  roads,  and  a  great  triangular 
slice  of  sea,  which  grew  wider  and  longer  as  we  ascended,  until  the 
horizon  was  full  fifty  miles  distant. 

Near  the  top  of  the  ravine  there  is  a  natural  terrace  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  in  length,  lying  opposite  to  the  cascade.  It  contains  a 
few  small  fields,  divided  by  scrubby  hedges,  and,  near  the  further  end, 
two  pleasant  dwelling-houses,  surrounded  by  a  garden  in  which  I  saw 
some  fine  orange-trees.  This  is  "  The  Briars,"  memorable  from  hav- 
ing been  Napoleon's  first  residence  on  the  island.  Tlie  Balcombe 
family  occupied  the  larger  of  the  two  dwellings,  which  is  flanked  by 
tall  Italian  cypresses,  while  the  other  building,  which  was  then  a  sum- 
mer pavilion,  but  was  afterward  enlarged  to  accommodate  the  Em- 
peror and  his  suite,  received  him  on  the  very  night  of  his  landing 
from  the  Bellerophon.  It  stands  on  a  little  knoll,  overlooking  a  deep 
glen,  which  debouches  into  the  main  valley  just  below.  Tlie  place  is 
cheerful  though  solitary ;  it  has  a  sheltered,  sunny  aspect,  compared 
with  the  bleak  heights  of  Longwood,  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  the 
great  exile  left  it  with  regret.  Miss  Balcombe's  account  of  Napo- 
leon's sojourn  at  "  The  Briars"  is  among  the  most  striking  reminis- 
cences of  his  life  on  the  island. 

Just  above  the  terrace  the  road  turned,  and,  after  a  shorter  ascent, 
gained  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  where  the  grade  became  easier,  and  the 
cool  south-east  trade-wind,  blowing  over  the  height,  refreshed  us  after 
the  breathless  heat  of  the  ravine.  The  road  was  bordered  with  pine- 
trees,  and  patches  of  soft  green  turf  took  the  place  of  the  volcanic  dust 
and  cinders.  Tlic  flower-stems  of  the  aloe-plants,  ten  feet  in  height, 
had  already  begun  to  wither,  but  the  purple  buds  of  the  cactus  were 


A    DAY   AT   ST.    HELENA.  79 

opening,  and  thick  clusters  of  a  watery,  succulent  plant  were  starred 
with  white,  pink,  and  golden  blossoms.  We  had  now  attained  the 
central  upland  of  the  island,  which  slopes  downward  in  all  directions 
to  the  summit  of  the  sea-wall  of  cliffs.  On  emerging  again  from  the 
wood,  a  landscape  of  a  very  different  character  met  our  view.  Over 
a  deep  valley,  the  sides  of  which  were  alternately  green  with  turf  and 
golden  with  patches  of  blossoming  broom,  we  looked  upon  a  ridge  of 
table-land  three  or  four  miles  long,  near  the  extremity  of  which,  sur- 
rounded by  a  few  straggling  trees,  we  saw  the  houses  of  Longwood. 
In  order  to  reach  them,  it  was  necessary  to  pass  around  the  head  of 
the  intervening  valley.  In  this  direction  the  landscape  was  green  and 
fresh,  dotted  with  groves  of  pine  and  white  country  houses.  Flocks 
of  sheep  grazed  on  the  turfy  hill-sides,  and  a  few  cows  and  horses 
ruminated  among  the  clumps  of  broom.  Down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
valley,  I  noticed  a  small  inclosure,  planted  with  Italian  cypresses,  and 
with  a  square  white  object  in  the  centre.  It  did  not  need  the  pos- 
tillion's words  to  assure  me  that  I  looked  upon  the  Grave  of  Napo- 
leon. 

Looking  eastward  toward  the  sea,  the  hills  became  bare  and  red, 
gashed  with  chasms  and  falling  off  in  tremendous  precipices,  the 
height  of  which  we  could  only  guess  from  the  dim  blue  of  the  great 
sphere  of  sea,  whose  far-off  horizon  was  drawn  above  their  summits, 
so  that  we  seemed  to  stand  in  the  centre  of  a  vast  concavity.  In 
color,  form,  and  magnificent  desolation,  these  hills  called  to  my  mind 
the  mountain  region  surrounding  the  Dead  Sea.  Clouds  rested  upon 
the  high,  pine-wooded  summits  to  the  west  of  us,  and  the  broad, 
sloping  valley,  on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  of  Longwood,  was  as 
green  as  a  dell  of  Switzerland.  The  view  of  those  fresh  pasture- 
slopes,  with  their  flocks  of  sheep,  their  groves  and  cottages,  was  all  the 
more  delightful  from  its  being  wholly  unexpected.  Where  the  ridge 
joins  the  hills,  and  one  can  look  into  both  valleys  at  the  same  time, 
there  is  a  small  tavern,  with  the  familiar  English  sign  of  the  "  Crown 
and  Rose."  Our  road  now  led  eastward  along  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
over  a  waste  tract  covered  with  clumps  of  broom,  for  another  mile 
and  a  half,  when  we  reached  the  gate  of  the  Longwood  Farm,  A 
broad  avenue  of  trees,  which  all  lean  inland  from  the  stress  of  the 


80  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

irade-wind,  conducts  to  the  group  of  buildings,  on  a  bleak  spot,  over- 
looking the  sea,  and  exposed  to  the  full  force  of  the  wind.  Our  wheels 
rolled  over  a  thick,  green  turf,  the  freshness  of  which  showed  how 
unfrequent  must  be  the  visits  of  strangers. 

On  reaching  the  gate  a  small  and  very  dirty  boy,  with  a  milk- 
and-molasses  complexion,  brought  out  to  us  a  notice  pasted  on  a 
board,  intimating  that  those  who  wished  to  see  the  residence  of  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  must  pay  two  shillings  a-piece,  in  advance  ;  child- 
ren half-price.  A  neat  little  Englishwoman,  of  that  uncertain  age 
which  made  me  hesitate  to  ask  her  whether  she  had  ever  seen  the 
Emperor,  was  in  attendance,  to  receive  the  fees  and  act  as  cicerone. 
We  alighted  at  a  small  green  verandah,  facing  a  wooden  wing  which 
projects  from  the  eastern  front  of  the  building.  The  first  room  we 
entered  was  whitewashed,  and  covered  all  over  with  the  names  of 
visitors,  in  charcoal,  pencil,  and  red  chalk.  The  greater  part  of  them 
were  French.  "  This,"  said  the  little  woman,  "  was  the  Emperor's 
billiard-room,  built  after  he  came  to  live  at  Longwood.  The  walls 
have  three  or  four  times  been  covered  with  names,  and  whitewashed 
over."  A  door  at  the  further  end  admitted  us  into  the  drawing-room, 
in  which  Napoleon  died.  The  ceiling  was  broken  away,  and  dust  and 
cobwebs  covered  the  bare  rafters.  The  floor  was  half-decayed,  almost 
invisible  through  the  dirt  which  covered  it,  and  the  plastering,  filling 
off,  disclosed  in  many  places  the  rough  stone  walls.  A  winnowing - 
mill  and  two  or  three  other  farming  utensils  stood  in  the  corners. 
The  window  looked  into  a  barn-yard  filled  with  mud  and  dung. 
Stretched  on  a  sofa,  with  his  head  beside  this  window,  the  great  con- 
queror, the  "  modern  Sesostris,"  breathed  his  last,  amid  the  delirium 
of  fancied  battle  and  the  bowlings  of  a  storm  which  shook  the  island. 
The  corner-stone  of  the  jamb,  nearest  which  his  head  lay,  has  beep 
quarried  out  of  the  wall,  and  taken  to  France. 

Beyond  this  was  the  dining-room,  now  a  dark,  dirty  barn-floor, 
filled  to  the  rafters  with  straw  and  refuse  timbers.  We  passed  out 
into  a  cattle-yard,  and  entered  the  Emperor's  bed-room.  A  horse 
and  three  cows  were  comfortably  stalled  therein,  and  the  floor  of  mud 
and  loose  stones  was  covered  with  dung  and  litter.  "  Here,"  said  the 
guide,  pointing  to  an  unusually  filthy  stall  in  one  corner,  "was  the 


A   DAY    AT    ST.    HELENA.  81 

Emperor's  bath-room.  Mr.  Solomon  (a  Jew  in  Jamestown)  has  the 
marble  bathing-tub  he  used.  Yonder  was  his  dressing-room"  —  a  big 
brinded  calf  was  munching  some  grass  in  the  very  spot  —  "  and  here" 
(pointing  to  an  old  cow  in  the  nearest  corner)  "  his  attendant  slept." 
So  miserable,  so  mournfully  wretched  was  the  condition  of  the  place, 
that  I  regretted  not  having  been  content  with  an  outside  view  of- 
Longwood.  On  the  other  side  of  the  cattle-yard  stand  the  houses 
which  were  inhabited  by  Count  Montholon,  Las  Casas,  and  Dr. 
O'Meara ;  but  at  present  they  arc  shabby,  tumble-down  sheds,  whose 
stone  walls  alone  have  preserved  their  existence  to  this  day.  On  the 
side  facing  the  sea,  there  are  a  few  pine-trees,  under  which  is  a  small 
crescent-shaped  fish-pond,  dry  and  nearly  filled  with  earth  and  weeds. 
Here  the  Emperor  used  to  sit  and  feed  his  tame  fish.  The  sky,  over- 
cast with  clouds,  and  the  cold  wind  which  blew  steadily  from  the  sea, 
added  to  the  desolation  of  the  place. 

Passing  through  the  garden,  which  is  neglected,  like  the  house, 
and  running  to  waste,  we  walked  to  the  new  building  erected  by  the 
Government  for  Napoleon's  use,  but  which  he  never  inhabited.  It  is 
a  large  quadrangle,  one  story  high,  plain  but  commodious,  and  with 
some  elegance  in  its  arrangement.  It  has  been  once  or  twice  occu- 
pied as  a  residence,  but  is  now  decaying  from  very  neglect.  Stand- 
ing under  the  brow  of  the  hill,  it  is  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  much 
more  cheerful  in  every  respect  than  the  old  mansion.  We  were  con- 
ducted through  the  empty  chambers,  intended  for  billiard,  dining, 
drawing,  and  bed-rooms.  In  the  bath-room,  where  yet  stands  the 
wooden  case  which  inclosed  the  marble  tub,  a  flock  of  geese  were  lux- 
uriating. The  curtains  which  hung  at  the  windows  were  dropping  to 
pieces  from  rot,  and  in  many  of  the  rooms  the  plastering  was  cracked 
and  mildewed  by  the  leakage  of  rains  through  the  roof  Near  the 
building  is  a  neat  cottage,  in  which  General  Bertrand  and  his  family 
formerly  resided.  It  is  now  occupied  by  the  gentleman  who  leases 
the  farm  of  Longwood  from  the  Government.  The  form  is  the  largest 
on  the  island,  containing  one  thousand  acres,  and  is  rented  at  £315  a 
year.  The  uplands  around  the  house  are  devoted  to  the  raising  of 
oats  and  barley,  but  grazing  is  the  principal  source  of  profit. 

G 


82  THE    ATLANTIC    SOrVEKIR. 

I  plucked  some  branches  of  geranium  and  fragrant  heliotrope  from 
llie  garden,  and  we  set  out  on  our  return.     I  prevailed  upon  Mr. 

P to  take  my  place  in  the  carriage,  and  give  me  his  horse  as  far 

n.s  the  "  Crown  and  Rose,"  thereby  securing  an  inspiring  gallop  of 
nearly  two  miles.  Two  Englishmen,  of  the  lower  order,  had  charge 
•of  the  tavern,  and  while  I  was  taking  a  glass  of  ale,  one  of  them 
touched  his  hat  very  respectfully,  and  said:  "Axin'  your  pardon.  Sir, 
are  you  from  the  States  1"  I  answered  in  the  affirmative.  "  There !" 
said  he,  turning  to  the  other  and  clapping  his  hands,  "  I  knew  it ; 
I  Ve  won  the  bet."  "  What  were  your  reasons  for  thinking  me  au 
American]"  I  asked.  "Why,"  said  he,  "the  gentlemen  from  the 
States  are  always  so  mild!  I  knowed  you  was  one  before  you  got 
f  off  the  horse." 

We  sent  the  carriage  on  by  the  road,  to  await  us  on  the  other  side 
of  the  glen,  and  proceeded  on  foot  to  the  Grave.  The  path  led  down- 
ward through  a  garden  filled  with  roses  and  heliotropes.  The  peach- 
trees  were  in  blossom,  and  the  tropical  loquat,  which  I  had  seen  grow- 
ing in  India  and  China,  hung  full  of  ripe  yellow  fruit.  As  we 
approached  the  little  inclosure  at  the  bottom  of  the  glen,  I,  who  was 
in  advance,  was  hailed  by  a  voice  crying  out,  "  This  way,  Sir,  this 
way !"  and,  looking  down,  saw  at  the  gate  a  diminutive,  wrinkled, 
old,  grizzly-headed,  semi-negro,  semi-Portuguese  woman,  whom  I  at 
once  recognized  as  the  custodienne  of  the  tomb,  from  descriptions 
which  the  officers  of  the  Mississippi  had  given  me.  "Ah!  there  you 
are!"  said  I;  "I  knew  it  must  be  you."  "Why,  Captain!"  she 
exclaimed ;  "  is  that  you  ?  How  you  been  this  long  while  1  I  did  n't 
know  you  was  a-comin',  or  I  would  ha'  put  on  a  bettor  dress,  for,  you 
see,  I  was  a-washin'  to-day.  Dickey!"  —  addressing  a  great,  fat, 
white  youth  of  twenty -two  or  twenty-three,  with  a  particularly  stupid 
and  vacant  fiicc  —  "run  up  to  the  garden  and  git  two  or  three  of  the 
finest  lokys  as  ever  you  can,  for  the  Captain  and  the  ladies !" 

At  the  gate  of  the  inclosure  hung  a  placard,  calling  upon  all  visit- 
ois  to  pay,  in  advance,  the  sum  of  one  shilling  and  sixpence  each, 
before  approaching  the  tomb.  This  touching  testimony  of  respect 
having  been  complied  with,  we  were  allowed  to  draw  near  to  the 


A    DAY    AT    ST.    HELENA.  83 

einjDty  vault,  which,  for  twenty  years,  enshrined  the  corpse  of  Napo- 
leon. It  is  merely  an  oblong  shaft  of  masonry,  about  twelve  feet 
deep,  and  with  a  rude  roof  thrown  over  the  mouth,  to  prevent  it  being 
filled  by  the  rains,  A  little  railing  surrounds  it,  and  the  space 
between  is  planted  with  geraniums  and  scarlet  salvias.  Two  wil- 
lows —  one  of  which  has  been  so  stripped  by  travellers  that  nothing 
but  the  trunk  is  left  —  shade  the  spot,  and  half-a-dozen  monumental 
cypresses  lift  their  tall  obelisks  around.  A  flight  of  steps  leads  to 
the  bottom  of  the  vault,  where  the  bed  of  masonry  which  inclosed  the 
coffin  still  remains.  I  descended  to  the  lowest  step,  and  there  found, 
hanging  against  the  damp  wall,  a  written  tablet  stating  that  the  old 
woman,  then  waiting  for  me  at  the  top,  told  an  admirable  and  excel- 
lent story  about  the  burial  of  Napoleon,  which  travellers  would  do 
well  to  extract  from  her,  and  that  one  shilling  was  but  a  fair  compen- 
sation for  the  pleasure  she  would  afford  them.  Appended  to  the 
announcement  were  the  following  lines,  which  I  transcribed  on  the 
spot: 

"  Firmly  strike  my  bounding  lyre, 
Poet's  muse  can  never  tire, 
Nosegays  gay  and  flowers  so  wild, 
Climate  good  and  breezes  mild, 
Humbly  ask  a  shilling,  please, 
Before  the  stranger  sails  the  seas. 
Napoleon  was  in  love  with  a  lady  so  true, 
He  gave  her  a  gold  ring  set  with  diamonds  and  pearls, 
Which  was  worthy  the  honors  of  many  brave  earls. 
But  she  died,  it  is  said,  in  her  bloom  and  her  beauty, 
So  his  love  broken-hearted 
For  ever  was  parted. 
He  drank  of  the  spring  and  its  water  so  clear,  • 

"Which  was  reserved  for  his  use,  and  he  held  it  most  dear. 
So  he  died,  so  he  died. 
In  the  bloom  of  his  pride, 
Like  the  victor  of  worlds  in  the  tomb  to  abide, 
Though  he  conquered  to  conquer  another  beside. 
,  In  his  life  he  sat  under  yon  lone  willow-tree, 
And  studied  the  air,  the  earth,  and  the  sea ; 
His  arms  were  akimbo,  his  thoughts  far  away. 


84  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

He  lived  six  months  at  the  house  on  the  hill,  at  his 

friend's,  the  brave  General  Beetrand  by  name,  and 
from  thence  he  would  come 

To  visit  the  spot, 

And  stand  in  deep  thought, 

Forgotten  or  not." 

If  I  had  been  saddened  by  the  neglect  of  Loiigwood,  1  was  dis. 
gristed  by  the  profonation  of  the  tomb.  Is  there  not  enough  reverence 
in  St.  Helena,  to  prevent  the  grave  which  a  great  name  has  hallowed, 
from  being  defiled  with  such  abominable  doggerel  ?  And  there  was 
the  old  woman,  who,  having  seen  mc  read  the  notice,  immediately 
commenced  her  admirable  and  interesting  story  in  this  wise :  "  Six 
years  he  lived  upon  the  island.  He  came  here  in  1S15,  and  he  died 
in  1821.  Six  years  he  lived  upon  the  island.  lie  was  buried  with 
his  head  to  the  east.  This  is  the  east.  His  feet  was  to  the  west. 
This  is  the  west.  Where  you  see  that  brown  dirt,  there  was  his 
head.  He  wanted  to  be  buried  beside  his  wife,  Josepliine ;  but,  as 
that  could  n't  be  done,  he  was  put  here.  They  put  him  here  because 
he  used  to  come  down  here  with  a  silver  mug  in  his  pocket,  and  take 
a  drink  out  of  that  spring.  That 's  the  reason  he  was  buried  here. 
There  was  a  guard  of  a  sargeant  and  six  men  up  there  on  the  hill,  all 
the  time  he  was  dovm  here  a-drinkin'  out  of  the  spring  with  his  silver 
mug.  This  was  the  way  he  walked."  Here  the  old  woman  folded 
her  arms,  tossed  back  her  grizzly  head,  and  strode  to  and  fro  with  so 
ludicrous  an  attempt  at  dignity,  that,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  was  forced 
into  laughter.  "  Did  you  ever  see  himi"  I  asked.  "  Yes,  Captain," 
said  she ;  "  I  seed  him  a  many  a  time,  and  I  always  said, '  Good  morn- 
in'.  Sir,', but  he  never  had  no  conversation  with  me."  A  draught  i>f 
the  cool  and  delicious  lymph  of  Napoleon's  Spring  completed  the 
farce.  I  broke  a  sprig  from  one  of  the  cypresses,  wrote  my  name  in 
the  visitor's  book,  took  the  "boky"  of  gillyflowers  and  marigolds, 
which  Dickey  had  collected,  and  slowly  remounted  the  opposite  side 
of  the  glen.  My  thoughts  involuntarily  turned  from  the  desecrated 
grave  to  that  fitting  sepulchre  where  he  now  rests,  under  the  banners 
of  a  hundred  victorious  battle-fields,  and  guarded  by  the  time-worn 


A    DAY    AT    ST.    HELENA.  85 

remnant  of  his  faithful  Old  Guard.  Let  Longwood  be  levelled  i.r»  the 
earth,  and  the  empty  grave  be  filled  up  and  turfed  over !  Better  that 
these  memorials  of  England's  treachery  should  be  seen  no  more ! 

We  hastened  back  to  Jamestown,  as  it  was  near  sunset.  The 
long  shadows  already  filled  the  ravine,  and  the  miniature  gardens  and 
streets  below  were  more  animated  than  during  the  still  heat  of  the 
afternoon.  Capt.  Rowland  was  waiting  f:>r  us,  as  the  ship  was  ready 
to  sail.  Before  it  was  quite  dark,  we  had  weighed  anchor,  and  M^ere 
slowly  drifting  away  from  the  desolate  crags  of  the  island.  The  next 
morning,  we  saw  again  the  old  unbroken  ring  of  the  sea. 


gi  ®r0pital  f  0psie. 


BT    PARK    BEKJAMnf. 


It  was  the  month,  the  saddest  one 

Of  all  the  varied  year ; 
The  slant  beams  of  the  setting  sun 
Touched  the  long  vapors,  thick  and  dun, 

Like  hope  that  brightens  fear. 
And  far  and  near,  with  dash  and  moan, 
The  waves,  like  prisoners,  dungeon-pent, 

Beat  on  the  rocky  bars ; 
When  forth  upon  my  voyage  I  went, 
Companioned,  yet  alone ! 

Friends  made  I  of  the  stars ; 
For,  ere  the  day  had  slowly  rolled. 
The  mists  were  all  bedecked  with  gold. 

And  when  dark  shadows  grew, 
Those  lustrous  children  of  the  Night 
Looked  with  their  tender  eyes  of  light 

Serenely  from  the  blue. 
I  was  no  sage  astrologer, 
Yet  in  their  pure  and  brilliant  lore. 
Without  one  cloud  the  page  to  blur, 

As  gently,  smoothly,  softly  o'er 
Now  sparklmg  waves  our  vessel  flowed, 

Could  I  a  radiant  story  see 

Of  that  not  far  futurity, 
That  longed-for,  sighed-for,  dear  abode, 
From  which,  forlorn,  I  had  departed. 

To  drink  awhile  the  healing  airs, 
To  taste  the  effluence,  which  imparted, 

In  answer  to  unfaltering  prayers. 


88  THE    ATLAKTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Joy  to  the  storm-tost  mariner, 

When,  dimly  far,  Cohitbus  spied 
The  blue  line  of  San  Salvador 
Lift  o'er  the  golden  tide ! 
Yes,  hopes  and  wislies  fell  like  rays 
Upon  me  from  that  starry  blaze ; 
And  well  I  knew  that  I  should  turn 

Safely  my  homeward  prow  once  more, 
And  once  more  view  their  glory  burn, 

Silvering  the  billows  toward  the  shore 
Of  Northern  climes,  to  which  my  soul 
Still  pointed  with  magnetic  power ; 
Though  soft  the  scene  and  fair  the  hour, 
And  though  tlie  billows'  murmuring  roll 
Lulled  every  sense  in  deep  repose. 
And  winds,  that  seemed  to  waft  the  rose. 
Came  to  me  through  the  Tropic  night, 
Suggesting  visions  of  delight, 
And  rapturous  dreams  of  beauty  bright. 
In  Southern  chambers,  never  known 
To  dwellers  in  the  Temperate  zone. 

And  so  we  sailed  —  on  —  on  —  while  smiles 

Dimpled  each  billow's  azure  cheek. 
And  then  wo  hailed  those  happy  isles 

That  Nature's  fond  enthusiasts  seek, 
Because  perpetual  Summer  dwells 
In  all  their  flower-besprinkled  dells, 
And  lifts  his  banners  green  above 

Their  hills  and  woods,  and  hangs  his  wr?ath9 
In  all  their  bowers  —  where  lasting  love 

The  incense  of  fruition  breathes. 

It  is,  in  truth,  a  fairy  clime, 
"With  all  its  beauty  spared  by  Time. 
Though  Cultivation  o'er  the  land 
Hath  sown  its  seeds  with  liberal  hand; 
Though,  in  tiio  lapse  of  many  a  year 
The  Spirit  of  the  Storm  appear, 
And  hurl  destruction  far  and  near, 
So  rai)idly  is  life  regained 


A    TROPICAL    VOYAGE.  89 

By  tree  and  herbage,  that  the  field 
Where  the  swift  deluge  fiercest  rained, 

"Will  all  its  vegetation  yield, 
"With  more  luxuriance  than  the  first 
New  morn  the  faithful  soil  was  nursed. 

Long  graceful  lines  of  coast  were  seen, 
Fringed  with  the  deepest  tints  of  green ; 
The  waves  ran  up  and  kissed  the  shore. 

As  if  inspired  with  child-like  glee. 
Then,  laughmg  at  the  robbery,  bore 

Leaves,  buds,  and  blossoms  out  to  sea. 
It  was  a  heartfelt  joy  to  hear 

Their  merry  voices ;  to  behold 
Grleaming  upon  their  foreheads  clear, 

Circlets  of  silver,  wreaths  of  gold ; 
To  deem  them  living  creatures,  blest 

"With  the  soft  airs  and  genial  glow 
Of  this  Elysium  of  the  "West, 

Unchanging  ever  in  their  flow, 
Save  with  the  changes  of  their  queen  — 

The  Moon  —  subdued  by  whose  sweet  face^ 
They  rolled  away  and  left  between 

Their  boundary  and  the  shore  a  space  — 
A  glittering  belt  of  sand  and  shells. 
Tossed  from  the  ocean's  treasure-cells. 

Alas !  how  many  years  I  've  told 

On  my  life's  rosary,  since  the  time, 

"When,  jinghng  httle  beUs  of  rhyme, 
I  voyaged  to  shun  the  mist  and  cold 
Of  "Winter  in  a  Northern  town ; 
I  voyaged  to  lands  of  small  renown  — 
Lands  where  no  war  was  ever  waged, 
Where  none  but  lovers  were  engaged ; 
"Where  old  Association  finds 
No  records  of  Ulustrious  minds ; 
No  ruined  temple,  broken  bust, 
Nor  urn  nor  venerated  dust ; 
But  where,  a,  Matron-Bride  arrayed 
In  all  the  pomp  of  light  and  shade, 


f);»  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVENIR. 

In  flowers  that  blush  in  earth,  in  air, 
In  fruitage,  luscious,  rich  and  rare. 
Sits  Nature  with  her  belt  unbound. 
Garments  loose-flowing  to  the  ground. 
Looks,  gesture,  motion  warm  and  free, 
And  all  the  charms  of  liberty. 


^Oy?A^^^ 


&.NINDIAN       LEGEND. 


BT       F.       W   .       6HELT0N. 


Long,  long  ago,  on  the  banks  of  the  Upper  Mississippi,  among  the 
tribes  of  the  warlike  Sacs,  lived  a  young  woman,  who  for  the  endear- 
ing gentleness  of  her  nature,  was  called  Nit-o-me-ma,  or  Gentle  Dove. 
The  savages  in  the  wilderness  acknowledged  her  power,  though 
revealed  only  in  the  majesty  of  her  motions  and  in  the  music  of  her 
voice.  She  controlled  their  avenging  passions  by  her  glance  of  pity, 
and  disarmed  them  with  a  woman's  tears.  The  doctrines  of  the 
cross  accorded  well  with  a  spirit  so  meek  and  loving,  and  she  became 
a  Christian.  The  good  missionary  Marquette  came  from  a  distant 
land,  crossed  the  stormy  deep,  and  pursuing  his  journey  through  a 
trackless  equntry,  bore  in  his  hands  the  Gospel  of  Peace.  Self-sacri- 
ficing and  devoted,  he  went  upon  his  errand,  proclaiming  to  the 
benighted  children  of  the  forest  the  glad  tidings  of  salvation  with  a 
resolution  which  despised  all  dangers  and  which  knew  no  fatigue. 
How  sublime  is  the  life  of  such  a  follower  of  Christ  !  But  alas  !  the 
disciple  was  treated  as  his  master.  His  benevolent  designs  were 
soon  mistaken,  and  ascribed  to  motives  base  and  mercenary.  Escap- 
ing from  his  pursuers,  he  went  into  a  solitary  place  to  pray.  When 
they  came  up  with  him  he  was  discovered  on  his  knees.  It  is  said 
that  they  drew  their  bows,  but,  observing  that  he  did  not  move,  they 
approached  and  found  him  dead. 

Soon  after  this,  Gentle  Dote  was  married  to  Omaint-si-ar-nah,  son 
of  the  nation's  chief.     Beautiful  and  manly  in  person,  tall  and  athletic, 


92  TilE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

with  features  regular  and  handsome,  skillful  and  adroit  in  the  use  of 
the  bow  and  in  casting  the  javelin,  in  battle  bold  and  daring,  like  his 
sire,  he  was,  moreover,  the  faithful  friend,  the  kind  husband,  the 
generous  host ;  but  he  was  in  temper  sanguine,  credulous,  and 
jealous. 

Scarcely  had  Gentle  Dove  become  his  bride,  even  with  the  first 
waning  rnoon  which  made  her  his,  when  a  sudden  war-whoop  broke 
upon  this  dream  of  bliss.  No  more  the  lovers  walked  within  the 
silent  forest  or  shot  the  rapids  in  their  light  canoe.  Tender  and  im- 
passioned was  their  early  parting ;  and  should  they  never  see  each 
other  more  upon  the  transitory  earth,  they  vowed  to  meet  unchanged 
in  love  upon  the  shadowy  confines  of  the  spirit-land.  Omaint-si-ar-nah 
smoothed  the  tresses  of  his  Gentle  Dove,  held  her  hand  in  momentary 
silence,  then  turned  his  back,  and  walked  erect  to  meet  his  warriors 
in  the  grove.  Towering  above  the  naked  and  be-painted  group,  he 
waved  his  arm,  and  with  a  bold  untutored  eloquence,  he  recounted 
insults  and  kindled  up  the  passion  of  revenge,  "Wild  gestures,  and  a 
yell  more  dreadful  than  the  beasts  make  in  concert,  attested  that 
his  words  had  taken  effect.  Calling  Que-la-wah,  "Faithful  Friend,"  he 
walked  aside,  and  bade  him  save  his  scalping-knife  and  unstring  his 
supple  bow.  He  could  have  no  part  in  the  present  foray,  although 
he  was  a  warrior  of  approved  renown.  Que-la-wah  must  remain 
behind,  and  to  his  good  protection  during  her  lord's  absence  he  com- 
mitted Gentle  Dove.  Then,  having  received  assurance,  the  chief  once 
more  called  his  band  around  him,  and  marched  without  delay  to  take 
revenge  upon  the  distant  tribes. 

The  art  of  writing  was  unknown ;  but  every  month  he  sent  a  trusty 
courier  from  his  camp  with  a  verbal  message  to  his  wife,  and  received 
her  missives  in  return.  Loitering  and  tedious  was  this  method  for  the 
impatience  of  affection,  but  dearer  than  volumes  were  the  true  words 
when  they  arrived,  Omaint-si-ar-nah  sometimes  drank  them  into  his 
ear  as  he  reclined  by  the  camp-fires  at  midnight,  and  the  music  of 
water-fjvlls  was  not  so  sweet.  They  nerved  his  arm  for  a  score  of 
battles,  though  but  the  plaining  of  a  dove.  How  welcome  the  sur- 
prises when  he  heard  the  dry  leaves  crackling,  and  seized  his  bow  and 
stole  without  the  tent,  expecting  an  enemy  in  ambush,  and  lo !  n  mes- 


GENTLE  DOVE.  93 

seuger  from  his  love !  Thus  to  and  fro,  like  shining  arrows  shot  and 
returned,  were  reciprocated  these  missives  of  two  faithful  hearts, 
until  they  suddenly  ceased.  Omaint-si-ar-nah  walked  in  gloom.  He 
thought  his  courier  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  foe. 

Que-la-wah,  "  Faitliful  Friend,"  had  become  enamored  of  Gentle 
Dove,  and  sought  by  every  means  to  win  her  from  her  rightful  lord. 
She  spunied  his  offers  with  indignation,  but  he  did  not  cease  to  tor- 
ment her  with  his  appeals.  The  old  and  the  very  young  were  all  who 
remained  in  the  tribe,  and  she  needed  protection  from  her  protector. 
^Meantime,  being  much  perj^lexed  in  spirit,  she  had  a  dream.  An 
awful  form  stood  before  her,  and  told  her  that  the  Virgin  loved  her, 
and  promised  to  reveal  the  future  to  her  eyes.  What  she  had  suf- 
fered from  Que-la-wah  was  but  a  beginning  of  greater  woes  to  come ; 
for  he  in  Avhom  her  soul  delighted  should  be  deceived,  forsake  his 
faithful  wife,  and  she  should  narrowly  escape  with  life.  Moreover, 
there  should  be  a  strife  for  empire,  and  a  race  of  white  men  who  ha^" 
cained  a  footino;  near  the  rising  sun,  from  small  bc^inninffs  should 
sweep  over  and  subdue  the  entire  land.  Still  her  own  nation  should 
not  be  without  renown,  for  lo !  a  chief  should  arise  who  should  bear 
sway  over  many  tribes,  and  lead  his  warriors  to  successful  battles ; 
and  when  at  last  his  limbs  should  be  bound  in  fetters,  his  soul  would 
be  unsubdued:  his  name  should  never  perish,  and  the  Holy  Virgin 
would  vouchsafe  protection  to  Gentle  Dove. 

Omaint-si-ar-nah  dispatched  another  messenger.  Meantime,  Que- 
la-wah,  finding  that  his  proffers  were  rejected,  vowed  revenge.  Ho 
bribed  the  courier  whom  the  chieftain  sent  with  tidings  to  his  wife,  so 
that  she  received  them  not,  and  returned  no  answer ;  but  he  bore 
back  word  that  he  had  delivered  them,  and  that  Gentle  Dove  had 
treated  them  with  marked  contempt ;  that  she  was  inconstant  and 
abandoned,  and  had  violated  her  pledge.  On  the  receipt  of  these 
cruel  tidings,  the  chief  went  into  a  paroxysm  of  rage.  He  commanded 
those  who  stood  near  him  to  draw  their  bows  and  shoot  him.  As 
none  obeyed,  he  was  about  to  drive  a  dart  into  his  own  breast,  but 
the  Aveapon  was  wrested  from  his  hand.  Then  the  flame  of  love  being 
quite  extinguished,  a  violent  hate  reigned  in  its  place,  and  he  resolved 
that  the  base  woman  who  had  betrayed  his  hopes  should  speedily  die 


94  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

He  dispatched  an  emissary,  to  whom  he  gave  secret  orders  to  entice 
his  Avife  into  the  forest,  under  pretence  that  he  bore  tidings  from  her 
lord,  when  he  should  slay  her,  and  immediately  return  to  the  camp, 
bringing  with  him  a  lock  of  her  hair  as  a  pledge  that  his  errand  had 
been  accomplished. 

The  round  orb  of  the  setting  sun  was  just  visible  above  the  waves 
of  the  yellow  Mississippi,  Nito-me-ma  stood  in  the  door  of  her  tent, 
weeping  and  dejected,  pressing  to  her  bosom  her  new-born  child,  and 
sometimes,  according  to  the  faith  which  she  had  imbibed,  appealing  to 
the  protection  of  the  Virgin,  sobbing  out  in  short  ejaculations,  "  O 
sweet  Mary,  holy  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  pray  for  me  !"  Thus 
engaged  in  devotion,  her  eyes  were  uplifted  to  heaven ;  but  when 
again  they  were  cast  downward,  a  strange  form  stood  before  her.  So 
stealthily  had  he  glided  through  the  thickets,  that  his  presence  was 
like  that  of  a  spirit.  For  a  moment  he  stood  erect  in  silence,  as  if 
spell-bound  by  her  charms. 

The  expression  of  maternal  love  added  a  new  grace  to  the  pale 
face  of  the  poor  child  of  sorrow,  and  her  bright  yet  tender  eyes  were 
brimming  over  with  tears.  Her  hair,  as  if  unloosed  on  purpose  to  be 
rifled  for  the  sacrificial  token,  fell  upon  her  glossy  shoulders  and 
almost  touched  the  ground,  and,  like  a  mute  and  unoffending  victim, 
ready  for  the  altar,  she  stood  as  if  to  wait  the  mandate  of  the  avenging 
priest. 

The  stranger  stretched  his  naked  arm,  and  pointed  with  his  finger 
to  the  sun.  "  See !"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  like  a  whisper,  "  he  is 
departing ;  the  day  is  almost  dead.  The  winds  cease  to  move  the 
tree-leaves ;  the  waves  cease  to  murmur.  But  it  is  not  dark ;  it  i^ 
not  silent.  Go  with  mc  to  the  deepest  thicket  at  a  distance  from  the 
curling  smoke  of  tents.  Over  the  mountains  I  have  come,  through 
the  rivers.  A  message  sent  so  liir  for  one  beloved  is  not  for  common 
ears.     Fear  not.  Gentle  Dove !" 

Trembling  and  agitated,  still  pressing  her  babe  to  lier  breast  and 
praying  as  she  went,  she  followed  his  footsteps,  which  were  rapid,  so 
that  she  could  scarce  keep  pace  with  them,  with  her  burdin  in  her 
arms.  It  was  nearly  dark  when,  arriving  at  a  most  secluded  spot,  her 
guide  suddenly  turned,  and  without  the  delay  of  a  moment,  as  if  he 


GENTJ,E    DOVE.  95 

feared  that  pity  might  gain  the  mastery  over  him  in  the  sight  of  so 
much  beauty,  assumed  a  stern  aspect,  and  commanded  her  to  lay  down 
her  child. 

"  Nito-me-ma !"  he  exclaimed,  "  prepare  to  die  instantly,  as  the 
penalty  of  unfaithfulness.  I  am  the  avenging  messenger  of  your  hus- 
band, and  I  dare  not  disobey  his  bidding.  That  the  blow  may  be 
surer  and  less  painful,  do  not  resist  a  fate  which  is  inevitable. 
Kneel !" 

He  snatched  his  tomahawk  from  his  girdle,  and  raised  it  on  high 
Gentle  Dove,  who,  for  her  own  sake,  would  have  gladly  died,  looked 
on  her  innocent  child ;  then,  with  a  wild,  impassioned  eloquence, 
begged  a  few  moments'  respite  to  send  up  a  prayer  to  God.  Her 
request  was  granted,  and  she  poured  forth  her  soul  for  heavenly  aid 
in  such  a  strain  as  well  might  make  the  angels  weep.  The  Great 
Spirit  heard  it.  The  delay  which  had  been  allowed  by  Omaint-si-ar- 
nah's  messenger  was  fatal  to  his  resolution.  Three  times  he  whirled 
his  hatchet  round  his  head,  then  struck  it  deep  into  the  trunk  of  the 
nearest  tree,  and  yielded  to  compassion.  In  truth,  his  savage  soul  had 
first  been  melted  when  he  stood  before  the  tent. 

He  spared  the  life  of  Nito-me-ma  on  one  condition :  that  she  would 
retire  into  the  thickest  forest,  and  never  more  be  seen  among  her 
tribe.  Having  exacted  such  a  promise,  he  shore  a  long  lock  of  her 
raven  hair,  gazed  at  her  in  a  long,  admiring  silence,  replaced  his 
hatchet  in  his  girdle,  and  then,  as  loth  to  go,  he  turned  upon  his  heel 
and  stalked  away.  "  I  have  disobeyed  my  chieftain,"  he  wailed  aloud 
when  at  a  little  distance ;  then  he  beat  his  breast  and  exclaimed,  "  The 
Great  Spirit  is  my  chieftain,  and  He  spoke  to  me  from  here."  He  was 
inclined  to  turn  again  and  shield  the  unprotected  wanderer ;  but  when 
he  reached  the  river's  brink  he  flung  himself  into  his  bark  canoe, 
and  waiting  for  the  moon  to  rise,  he  slept  upon  the  murky  tide. 

Gentle  Dove,  when  left  alone  to  perish,  as  might  be  supposed,  by 
a  more  cruel,  lingering  death,  moved  slowly  onward  through  the  dark, 
she  knew  not  where.  Entering  a  deep  hollow,  she  found  it  filled  with 
dry  leaves,  and,  lying  down  with  her  child,  the  breeze  of  the  night  came 
along,  and  with  a  sudden  gust,  covered  them  lightly  with  the  same,  so 
that  the  chilling  dews  should  not  benumb  them.     More  useful  thus 


96  THE    ATLANTIC    SOLTEXIR. 

the  perished  twigs  than  when  upon  the  oaken  crowTis  they  shone  in 
glossy  verdure,  and  were  vital  in  the  spring-time  of  the  year.  The 
wolves  howling  for  their  evening  repast  might  be  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance, but  Nito-me-ma  slept  sweetly  on  her  sylvan  couch,  and  feared 
no  evil.  On  the  morrow  she  rose  up  refreshed,  and  went  away  into  her 
woody  exile  far  from  her  husband's  tent.  She  would  return  no  more, 
but  God  would  be  her  sole  protector.  For  three  days  she  travelled 
in  the  forest,  till,  arriving  at  a  very  secret  place,  where  she  perceived 
no  trails  had  been,  she  kneeled  upon  the  sod,  and,  by  a  short  act  of 
private  devotion,  consecrated  it  as  her  future  home.  It  was  a  narrow 
vale,  sheltered  by  a  gigantic  growth,  and  without  brambles  or  under- 
wood. Thf.  soft  green  sod  was  a  carpet  for  her  bare  feet,  and  a  pure 
fountain  gushed  up  hard  by  from  a  bed  of  little  white  pebbles.  A 
snail's  shell  served  as  a  water-cup,  and  searching  in  the  neighborhood 
for  a  place  to  build  her  tent,  a  vast  tree,  hollowed  out  at  the  base,  was ' 
revealed  to  her,  quite  ample  in  accommodation  for  herself  and  child. 
She  now  sought  the  means  of  life,  that  the  fount  which  flowed  in  her 
bosom  might  not  be  dry.  Roots  and  berries  would  not  supply  its 
rich  life-stream,  but  Nito-me-ma  had  not  lived  in  the  forest  in  vain. 
Wandering  beyond  the  limits  of  her  domain,  she  came  upon  an  open 
place  in  the  wilderness  where  the  sun  shone  down,  and  her  eyes  were 
delighted  by  the  sight  of  a  field  of  wild  maize.  Day  by  day  she  trans- 
ported the  treasure  to  her  habitation,  until  it  was  all  housed  and  her 
bread  was  sure.  From  the  white  husks  she  wove  a  matting  for  her 
habitation,  and  the  sweet  stalks  she  stored  away  elsewhere,  and  she 
beat  the  grain  in  a  rude  mortar ;  but  as  she  sat  in  the  door- way, 
Nito-me-ma  reflected  that  she  had  no  fire  to  bake  thb  crisp-cakes 
withal.  But  the  same  God  who  gave  her  daily  bread  struck  a  dry 
pine-tree  in  one  of  his  glorious  storms,  and  enkindled  its  bark  as  if 
with  the  very  sparks  of  IIis  pity.  From  that  time  the  flame  died  not 
on  the  domestic  hearth ;  and  when  the  shades  of  night  came  down,  it 
shone  with  soft  cfiiilgence  on  the  mother  and  her  child.  Nito-me-ma 
found  a  sharp-edged  stone  in  the  brook,  with  whit-h  slie  hewed  down  a 
lithe  sapling,  and  having  woven  a  strong  cord  for  her  bow,  and  selected 
some  reeds  for  arrows,  she  shot  the  little  birds  and  dressed  them  for 
food,  and  she  entrapped  the  mountain  trout  in  their  fastnesses,  and 


GENTLE   DOVE.  97 

preserved  them  in  the  waters  of  a  salt  spring  which  she  discovered 
about  a  league  off  from  her  home.  She  laid  away  great  store  of  dried 
fruits  and  berries,  and  pleasant  herbs  and  flowers,  and  sassafras  and 
birch,  and  sweet  barks.  In  one  moon  before  the  hoar  frosts  had 
whitened  the  ground,  her  store-house  was  so  well  furnished  that  she 
could  have  no  dread  of  famine,  and  might  even  entertain  a  pilgrim  in 
distress.  The  furniture  of  her  abode  accorded  also  with  her  wants :  a 
bed  made  of  dry  husks,  with  a  covering  of  the  same,  a  chair  woven  of 
the  wild  willow,  and  a  slight  table  of  the  same ;  for  cups,  gourds  and 
snail-shells,  and  vessels  of  rude  pottery  made  by  her  own  hands.  At 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  she  offered  prayers  to  God,  and  invoked  the 
Virgin. 

Gentle  Dove  seemed  to  live  within  a  charmed  circle.  Wild  beasts 
and  venomous  serpents  did  not  find  their  way  therein,  and  the  more 
dreaded  foot  of  man  intruded  not ;  but  myriads  of  birds  flew  into  the 
inclosures,  both  those  of  gorgeous  plumage  and  of  dulcet  song  —  the 
bobolink  and  the  oriole,  and  the  pure  white  doves.  The  humming- 
birds came  in  quest  of  honeysuckles  and  the  Missouri  rose-budsj  which 
clustered  around  the  poor  child's  door.  Moreover,  the  fawns  ski2:)ped 
on  the  grass  before  the  hollow  tree,  but  she  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  pierce  them  w^ith  her  arrows.  They  were  the  delight  of  her 
eyes,  and  at  last  approached  and  ate  out  of  her  hand.  While  her 
child  slumbered  on  the  bed  of  husks,  Gentle  Dove  sat  without,  sing- 
ing in  a  low  sweet  voice  the  hymns  Marquette  had  taught  her ;  nor 
were  these  moments  spent  in  idleness :  she  wove  willow  baskets,  or 
made  sandals  from  the  bark  of  trees,  blankets,  and  garments  for  her 
little  one.  Oh !  how  sweetly  it  slumbered !  —  it  seemed  to  thrive  more 
and  more  every  day,  and  in  features  more  and  more  resembled  its 
mother.  "Morning-Glory"  was  its  name,  and  every  morning  Nito- 
me-ma  took  it  to  the  spring,  and  poured  the  cold  crystal  waters  upon 
it,  so  that  it  became  hardy,  and  its  olive  complexion  glowed  with 
health.  She  had  already  baptized  it,  but  not  in  the  waves  of  the 
fountain.  When  she  first  came  into  the  wilderness,  perceiving  that 
the  child's  foce  was  wet  with  tears  which  had  dropped  from  her  own 
eyes,  she  signed  the  cross  upon  its  forehead,  and  in  those  holy  drops 

which  welled  up  from  a  broken  heart,  christened  it  in  the  name  of  the 

1 


9S  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

undivided  Trinity.  Swung  upon  her  shoulders,  Morning-Glory  was 
the  constant  attendant  of  all  her  walks,  no  matter  how  great  the  dis- 
tance, or  what  additional  burden  she  expected  to  bear. 

A  mother  with  her  child,  can  feel  no  solitude.  Every  place  is  a 
desert  without  it ;  with  it,  there  are  people  enough  in  the  unpeopled 
waste.  It  is  music  where  there  is  no  voice,  and  speech  where  there 
is  no  language,  and  a  host  of  friends  where  all  have  departed,  a  blue 
sky  where  there  is  nothing  but  clouds,  and  a  flower  in  the  unwatered 
wilderness.  But  this  little  wood-nymph,  in  its  hollow  tree,  made  the 
whole  ground  enchanted.  The  winds  sighing  in  the  branches  seemed  to 
Gentle  Dove  like  angels  of  heaven  which  whispered  its  lullaby.  Alas ! 
it  was  only  when  she  thought  that  her  child  was  without  a  father,  that 
this  dream  of  bliss  was  doomed  to  be  interrupted.  But  never  had  her 
love  for  her  husband  become  abated,  nor  had  such  cruel  treatment 
stirred  one  feeling  of  resentment  in  her  soul.  In  truth,  she  hardly 
learned  to  love  him  till  she  .was  forced  to  pity  and  forgive  ! 

How  different  from  this  peaceful  sanctuary  the  scenes  where 
Omaint-si-ar-nah  walked  in  gloom !  With  desperate  rage  he  rushed 
into  the  thick  of  battle.  He  raged  and  ravened  like  a  wolf  upon  the 
bloody  field,  and  scalped  his  foes  and  brought  off  many  trophies ;  but 
most  of  all,  he  sought  to  terminate  a  life  which  was  no  longer  to  be 
desired.  The  very  sun  was  hateful  to  his  sight,  and  so  irascible 
became  his  temper,  that  his  own  friends  would  scarce  approach  him 
in  his  fits  of  moody  melancholy,  lest  in  a  moment  he  should  strike 
them  dead.  He  had  been  deceived  by  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  in  whom 
he  trusted,  and  he  now  suspected  all  of  being  traitors.  In  fact,  he 
was  betrayed  and  blinded ;  but  she  who  was  so  grossly  injured  did 
not  cease  to  pray  for  his  preservation,  and  that  the  scales  might  be 
removed  from  her  husband's  eyes. 

One  day,  with  bow  and  arrows,  and  a  basket  on  her  arm  and  with 
Morning-Glory  on  her  back,  Gentle  Dove  Avent  forth  to  search  for 
eggs  of  pheasants  and  the  prairie-hen.  She  wandered  far,  and  was 
just  stooping  to  complete  her  store,  when  her  quick  ear  detected  the 
approaching  sound  of  steps.  Gliding  into  a  thicket,  she  moved 
not  and  dared  scarcely  breathe.  In  a  moment,  Que-la-wali,  detested 
traitor,  appeared  in  sight.     Low  stooping,  with  his  eyes  fastened  on 


GENTLE    DOVE.  99 

the  ground,  he  examined  footsteps  in  the  sand.  Then  he  laid  down 
his  bow  and  game,  and  first  looking  upward,  stood  with  his  hack 
against  a  tree. 

"  God  of  Justice !"  exclaimed  Gentle  Dove,  "  nerve  thy  weak  crea- 
ture's arm  !" 

She  placed  her  child  upon  the  ground,  chose  from  her  quiver  a 
well-sharpened  arrow  and  fitted  it  to  the  string.  Fixing  her  keen  eye 
for  the  moment  on  the  mark  she  aimed  at,  she  drew  the  weapon  to  its 
flinty  head  and  let  it  speed.  The  whizzing  shaft  just  grazed  the  ear 
of  the  false  savage,  and  quivered  in  the  bark. 

"  Lost !"  said  Gentle  Dove,  but  did  not  remove  her  gaze,  and  fitted 
another  arrow  to  the  string. 

Que-la-wah  leaped  aloft  and  uttered  a  terrific  yell,  and  leaving  after 
him  his  bow  and  game,  fled  quickly  to  the  thickest  woods.  Then 
Nito-me-ma  inscribed  a  cross  upon  the  tree  in  token  of  deliverance, 
and  gathering  at  its  foot  the  small  wild  flowers,  she  bore  them  home 
and  wove  a  votive  chaplet  for  her  shrine. 

The  autumn  passed  away ;  the  falling  leaves  and  sombre  skies 
announced  that  winter  was  at  hand.  Nito-me-ma  laid  up  a  great 
store  of  brushwood,  and  dry  turf  and  pitchy  bark,  and  prepared  a 
wadded  curtain  for  the  opening  in  the  hollow  tree,  and  made  thick 
brooms  of  twigs  wherewith  to  sweep  away  the  snows,  and  little  lamps 
of  clay  to  be  used  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  and  garments  of  the 
furs  of  rabbits,  and  a  soft  couch  for  her  child  from  the  down  of  the 
prairie-hen,  and  treasured  up  eggs  in  the  waters  taken  from  the  salt 
spring.  Thus  having  done  all  for  safety  which  her  knowledge 
prompted,  she  waited  without  apprehension  for  the  cutting  blasts 
and  for  thick-falling  snows.  Beautiful  and  like  a  conqueror  came 
on  October  in  the  distant  west,  with  gorgeous  plumes  and  purple 
hues,  like  hectic  flushes  of  the  dying.  A  thin  blue  vapor  floated  over 
vale  and  mountain-top ;  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  straw- 
berry-leaves, while  the  still  genial  sun  encouraged  vegetation  and 
wooed  the  prairie-rose  to  bloom.  The  wild  grapes  hung  in  tempting 
clusters  from  the  high  trees  of  the  forest,  as  if  the  produce  of  the  elm 
and  vine.  Then  often  at  the  hour  of  sunset,  when  the  birds  hid  their 
heads  beneath  their  wings,  and  all  the  labors  of  the  day  were  finished, 


100  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

would  Nito-xne-ma  sing  an  evening  hymn,  or  with  a  low  and  plaintive 
melody,  strike  into  a  little  voluntary  of  her  own : 

"  My  Mormng-Glory  is  the  prido  of  the  forest : 
Nothing  so  sweet  beneath  the  stars : 

Opens  its  blue  eyes  in  the  morning  and  closes  its  lids  at  night: 
It  has  but  a  slender  support  to  lean  on, 
For  its  strong  prop  has  been  taken  away. 
It  climbs  o'er  a  sorrowful  ruin, 
And  its  cup,  it  is  filled  -with  briny  tears. 
Wind  round  me,  sweet  Morxing-Glort, 
Ami  bind  up  the  stem  which  holds  up  thee." 

At  last  the  snows  descended  and  lay  in  pyramidal  layers  on  the 
pines  and  evergreens,  and  the  air  was  nipping  cold,  but  it  entered  not 
the  barken  inclosure,  nor  touched  the  little  nymph  at  the  foot  of  the 
oak.  Gentle  Dove  was  happy  in  those  dark  days.  The  snow-birds 
hopped  about  her  abode,  to  receive  crumbs  from  her  humble  table, 
and  left  their  footprints  all  around.  She  had  no  book  to  read  from, 
nor  had  she  learned  the  art  of  reading,  but  Morning-Glory  was  an 
opening  and  expanding  revelation,  full  of  poetry  and  irradiated  with 
hope.  At  night,  when  the  winds  howled,  and,  in  sympathy  with  the 
uplifted  head,  the  sides  of  the  living  house  in  which  she  dwelt  were 
contorted  and  sent  forth  groans  as  if  in  pain,  she  made  moccasins  by 
the  dim  light  of  her  lamp,  with  her  feet  near  the  hot  embers,  and  so 
beguiled  the  weary  time.  She  dared  not  wander  during  the  wintry 
months,  for  the  wolves  were  hungry,  and  their  bowlings  could  be 
heard  for  miles  on  the  air.  Beyond  the  forests  the  illimitable  prairies 
were  covered  with  a  white  mantle,  and  the  Father  of  Waters  was 
frozen-up. 

When  the  natal  day  of  the  Lord  came.  Gentle  Dove  adorned  her 
sanctuary  with  laurel  and  with  green  twigs,  and  out  of  doors  built 
an  altar  of  pure  white  snows,  and  wreathed  it  round  with  running 
vines,  and  placed  thereon  the  dried-up  votive  chaplet,  and  she  called 
it  the  Altar  of  Deliverance.  It  was  not  destitute  of  other  offerings, 
for  the  trees  dropped  icicles,  and  covered  it  with  crystal  gems.  At 
last  the  thaws  began,  and  the  green  blades  of  grass  peeped  forth  upon 


GENTLE    DOVE.  101 

the  sunny  knolls,  and  the  blue  violets  appeared,  first  heralds  of  the 
spring,  and  the  fragrant  buds  swelled  out,  and  tender  leaves  appeared. 
Another  ordeal  had  been  safely  passed,  while  new  hope  and  confidence 
animated  the  grateful  heart  of  Nito-me-ma.  She  came  forth  from  her 
retreat,  and  erected  a  summer  bower  more  ample  in  accommodations 
than  the  one  which  she  left,  working  at  it  during  the  intervals  in  which 
her  child  reposed.  She  bent  the  crowns  of  tall  young  saplings,  and 
fastening  them  together  at  the  top  with  strong  cords,  she  interwove 
the  intervals  with  pliant  boughs,  and  having  completed  it  in  a  short 
time  moved  thither  her  domestic  goods.  So  sweetly  stole  the  hours 
away,  and  never  was  one  more  happy  in  unhappiness,  or  more  sup- 
ported when  support  appeared  to  be  withdrawn. 

The  arrival  of  the  lovely  month  of  May  awakened  a  feeling  of 
ecstasy  in  the  heart  of  Gentle  Dove.  In  that  month  she  was  born  and 
married,  and  in  that  her  child  was  born ;  nay,  more,  at  that  season 
she  had  been  converted  to  the  religion  of  the  Cross,  and  every  fortu- 
nate circumstance  of  her  life  was  connected  with  it,  and  it  was  asso- 
ciated with  a  thousand  happy  memories.  Its  balmy  breath  infused 
new  life  into  her  system,  for  she  was  somewhat  pale  and  wan  with 
watching  and  confinement,  and  again  she  hurried  forth  with  Morning- 
Glory  on  her  shoulders,  to  gather  flowers  in  the  distant  vale.  Her 
provision  of  maize  was  still  flir  from  exhausted,  but  she  had  been 
obliged  to  mix  the  cakes  with  water,  and  long  ago  the  bread  had 
become  poor  to  the  taste.  Her  unpampered  palate  required  still  the 
luxury  of  milk.  She  was  just  thinking  of  this,  although  by  no  means 
murmuring,  when,  in  a  grassy  nook,  she  suddenly  encountered  a 
female  buffalo  quietly  grazing,  with  her  young  by  her  side.  It  was  as 
tame  as  if  brought  up  among  the  haunts  of  men.  She  fed  it  with 
hand's-full  of  green  and  tender  grass,  and,  unmolested,  placed  her  tiny 
palms  upon  its  forehead.  When  she  retreated,  the  coav  followed  her, 
and  never  ceased  to  track  her  footsteps  until  she  arrived  before  her 
bower.  From  that  time  she  drained  its  milk  day  by  day  in  the  hoi 
low  of  a  wild  gourd,  and  it  gave  sustenance  to  herself  and  to  her 
child. 

Nito-me-ma  used  to  rise  at  day-break,  and,  after  washing  herself 
in  the  cool  brook,  and  offering  up  her  devotions,  she  walked  withii. 


102  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

sight  of  her  home  until  the  time  of  her  morning  meal.  In  one  of 
these  excursions  she  was  clambering  up  a  ledge  of  rocks  when  she 
dipped  her  hands  into  some  wild  honeycomb  filled  with  sweets,  and 
made  of  the  earliest  flowers  of  spring.  Thoughtlessly  she  broke  it 
into  fragments,  and  piled  the  delicious  masses  into  an  apron  made  of 
leaves,  while  all  around  her  head  the  bees  buzzed  busily  without  the 
infliction  of  a  sting.  Although  in  faith  a  Christian,  Gentle  Dove 
adhered  religiously  to  many  customs  of  her  ancestors,  so  far  as  they 
did  not  conflict  with  her  Christian  foith.  She  loved  her  tribe  and  peo- 
ple, and  her  own  dear  home,  from  which  she  was  banished,  and  she 
longed  to  dwell  again  among  her  kindred,  to  assuage  their  ferocious 
spirit,  and  to  teach  them  the  offices  of  kindness  and  of  love.  Day 
after  day  passed  away  in  her  hopeless  solitude,  and  brought  no  tidings 
from  her  distant  lord.  Yet  she  had  the  most  manifest  proofs  of  the 
Divine  protection  in  the  little  miracles  which  diversified  her  lonely 
career.  The  courier  had  taken  that  lock  of  hair  from  her  devoted 
head,  and  carried  it  to  Omaint-si-ar-nah  at  his  encampment,  who  sup- 
posed that  his  cruel  mandate  had  been  obeyed.  Hence  he  continued 
to  be  reckless  of  life,  and  did  not  make  haste  to  return  to  the  homes 
of  his  fathers. 

In  the  mean  time  Morning-Glory  increased  in  stature,  and  was 
straight  and  slender  as  a  reed.  So  soon  as  she  could  be  made  to 
comprehend,  she  was  instructed  in  the  first  principles  of  the  Christian 
faith.  In  the  cathedral-like  and  solemn  gloom  of  primitive  woods, 
each  day  her  little  hands  were  clasped  in  prayer,  and  the  whole  ]>lace 
was  rendered  consecrate.  There  was  a  music  in  her  lisping  voice, 
which  rose  to  heaven  with  a  more  buoyant  ease  than  sound  of  organs 
and  of  jubilant  anthems  in  the  temple-naves.  In  the  pure  waters  of 
the  spring,  which  gushed  up  hard  by,  might  sometimes  bo  seen  a  wild 
little  picture,  the  image  of  Morning-Glory — her  face  stained  with 
berries,  her  hair  stuck  full  of  the  feathers  of  gay  birds,  and  her  waist 
wound  around  M'ith  a  cincture  of  flowers.  She  was  already  skillful  in 
the  use  of  the  bow  and  in  casting  a  small  javelin ;  she  was  n»j  longer 
swung  upon  her  mother's  l)ack,  nay,  in  case  of  danger  and  attack, 
Morning-Glory  might  have  been  an  efliiient  auxiliary,  because  she 
could  direct  a  deadly   arrow,  and  did  not   know  the  sentiment   of 


GENTLE    DOVE.  103 

fear.  But  her  mother  did  not  permit  her  out  of  sight  for  a  moment. 
Deprived  of  her  sweet  child,  her  sole  companion,  the  spirits  of  Gentle 
Dove  would  have  sunk  beyond  recovery.  One  morning,  having  slept 
soundly,  on  awaking,  she  found  that  Morning  Glory  had  risen  before 
her,  and  gone  out  of  the  house.  In  dread  alarm,  she  rushed  into  the 
wood,  and  lifted  up  her  voice,  and  shrieked  aloud ;  but  no  answer  was 
returned,  save  the  mocking  echo,  "  Morning-Glory  !  Morning-Glory  !" 
She  ran  hither  and  thither,  she  knew  not  where,  and  peered  into  the 
thickets  with  a  keen  eye,  and  tried  to  track  her  by  the  footprints  of 
her  tiny  feet,  and  kept  continually  calling  her  by  name,  weeping  and 
beating  her  breast  the  while,  but  no  Morning-Glory  !  Exhausted  by 
exertion,  and  overpowered  with  grief.  Gentle  Dove  came  and  cast  her- 
self upon  her  cot  in  an  agony  bordering  on  despair.  But  as  the  day 
declined,  and  she  had  given  up  all  for  lost,  the  clear  and  ringing 
laughter  of  the  little  rover  was  heard  without,  and  she  approached 
with  two  young  turtle-doves,  which  she  had  only  slightly  wounded. 
Nito-me-ma  clasped  her  to  her  bosom,  and  her  convulsions  of  joy  were 
almost  fatal.  When  a  little  recovered,  she  thought  to  punish  her  foi 
so  wild  and  disobedient  an  act,  but  she  could  not  find  in  her  heart  to 
lay  a  finger  upon  her,  and  she  did  nothing  but  weep  upon  the  head  of 
Morning-Glory  a  shower  of  sparkling  tears. 

The  child  had,  perhaps,  attained  her  sixth  year,  and  the  life  in  the 
grove  was  but  little  varied,  when  Omaint-si-ar-nah,  tired  of  roaming, 
returned  with  his  warriors  to  the  place  whence  they  had  set  out.  His 
wigwam  was  burned  to  the  ground,  his  old  mother  was  dead,  his 
Gentle  Dove  (as  he  thought)  was  murdered.  He  walked  apart  and 
spent  his  days  in  gloom,  while  his  warriors  dared  not  approach  him, 
for  he  was  more  ferocious  and  hostile  in  spirit  than  before.  One  day 
he  was  wandering  listlessly  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  waiting  for  a  deer 
which  was  swimming  with  its  current,  when  his  attention  was  attracted 
by  some  hieroglyphics  on  a  tree,  understood  by  Nito-me-ma  and  him- 
self They  were  the  emblems  of  true  love ;  and,  on  close  inspection, 
he  discovered  that  some  of  them  had  been  freshly  made,  and  signified 
affection  which  has  changed  not,  and  which  is  unchangeable.  Their 
time  of  being  made  was  posterior  surely  to  that  when  she  whom  he 
saspected  had  been  accounted  false.     Then  the  sad  truth  flashed  in  ov 


104  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEMR. 

his  benighted  soul ;  he  struck  his  brow  with  violence,  and  groaned 
filoud.  He  took  the  raven  tresses  from  his  liosoni,  sole  relic  of  his 
once-loved  wife,  and,  sitting  down  upon  a  fallen  trunk,  spake  to  him- 
self in  mournful  accents,  and  in  the  figurative  language  of  the  Indian 
tribes :  *'  O  Nito-me-ma,  Dove  of  the  Forest,  Beautiful  Pride  of  the 
Prairie,  torn  away  by  cruel  fate.  Her  breath  was  sweeter  than  the 
mountain  balm ;  her  eyes  were  like  the  wild  fawn's  eyes ;  and  her 
teeth,  white  as  the  snow-flakes  newly  fallen.  Where  wanders  my 
love  by  the  crystal  rivers  of  the  Spirit-Land?  Omaint-si-ar-nah's 
heart  is  gloomy  as  the  cypress-grove  at  midnight  when  the  moon 
goes  down.  His  arm  has  lost  its  strength,  and  his  feet  cease  from 
running.     O  Gentle  Dove,  come  to  me  from  the  land  of  ghosts !" 

"  The  chief  walks  alone,"  said  a  voice  almost  at  Omaint-si-ar-nah's 
car.  He  turned,  and  Gray-Eagle  stood  before  him,  the  commissioner 
of  blood. 

"  Ha !"  said  the  former,  clutching  in  his  hand  the  lock  of  hair, 
"you  have  executed  your  errand  well,  and  have  shed  innocent  blood." 
He  restored  the  lock  to  his  bosom,  placed  his  left  hand  on  the  hatchet 
in  his  girdle,  and  raising  his  right  arm  to  heaven,  "By  the  Great 
Spirit  !"  he  added,  "  we  shall  both  die,  and  that  before  yon  sun  goes 
do-wn." 

Gray-Eagle  stood  erect  and  smiled  a  moment  without  reply.  He 
walked  slowly  down  to  the  margin  of  the  brook,  dipped  a  shell  in 
water,  and  poured  it  over  his  hands. 

"  Thou  art  not  exonerated,"  said  Omaint-si-ar-nah. 

"  I  am,  Chief,"  replied  the  Gray-Eagle. 

Omaint-si-ar-nah  grasped  his  tomahawk,  and  made  a  threatening 
motion  as  if  to  strike  him  dead. 

Gray-Eagle  smiled  again,  and  did  not  move. 

"  Hear  me,"  he  said ;  "  I  have  disobeyed  my  chieftain,  but  these 
hands  have  not  been  stained  with  blood.  The  Gentle  Dove  still 
lives." 

•'  Lives !"  said  the  other,  and  he  clasped  his  hands  and  stood  a 
long  time  rooted  to  the  soil  —  "lives!"  he  exclaimed  in  ecstasy; 
"  then  /  live ;  then  the  sun  shines ;  then  the  grass  grows.    Speak  on." 

"  I  never  slew  her.     I  brought  you  but  the  token  of  unchanged 


GENTLE   DOVE.  lOo 

affection,  and  not  the  stain  of  blood.  I  have  not  made  your  house 
desolate,  nor  your  child  motherless." 

The  chieftain  struck  his  javelin  in  the  earth.  "My  child "?"  he 
shrieked  in  a  voice  which  made  the  woods  ring  again,  a  combmation 
of  ecstasy  and  agony  and  surprise  —  "  my  child?'''' 

"  Your  child !"  replied  the  Gray-Eagle. 

"  Whither  gone  1"  said  Omaint-si-ar-nah. 

"  You  ask  too  much  of  me,"  answered  the  Gray-Eagle.  "  If  I  did 
not  take  away  their  lives,  could  I  keep  them  from  dying  1  A  man 
can  kill,  but  the  Great  Spirit  keeps  alive,  and  He  only.  I  know  not 
where  they  are." 

"Enough,"  said  Omaint-si-ar-nah.  "All  will  be  well.  Gray- 
Eagle  soars  aloft  and  stoops  not  low."  With  the  end  of  his  spear  he 
described  a  circle  on  the  ground,  and,  placing  the  end  of  it  in  the  cen 
tre,  he  drew  many  radii.  "  To-night,"  he  said,  "  we  sleep  as  if  the 
sleep  of  death.  When  the  sun  dawns,  each  man,  yea,  every  woman 
of  the  tribe,  will  start  from  here,  and  travel  toward  the  rising  and 
the  setting  sun,  and  every  point,  until  she  is  found  whom  my  sou! 
loveth." 

"  Stay !"  said  Gray-Eagle,  "  you  will  go  too  early  in  the  search 
Punish  traitors  first  before  you  haste  to  seek  for  the  betrayed.  Youi 
Faithful  Friend  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  mischief  Que-la-wah  strove 
to  win  the  Gentle  Dove.  She  drove  him  off  with  fierce  rebuke,  and 
hence  he  vowed  revenge." 

Omaint-si-ar-nah  grasped  the  hand  of  the  Gray-Eagle,  and  while  a 
fierce  vindictive  look  flashed  over  him,  he  said,  "To-morrow!  yes, 
to-morrow!"  then  pressed  the  lock  of  hair  unto  his  lips,  wrapped 
his  blanket  round  him,  and  sank  upon  the  ground,  even  on  the  very 
spot  where  he  had  stood  and  slept. 

Soon  as  the  first  beams  of  day  appeared,  the  chief  went  forth  alone 
to  punish  a  man  who  had  betrayed  his  trust.  He  found  Que-la-wah 
gathering  sticks  to  make  his  morning  meal.  "Base  villain,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  thou  shalt  die."  And  with  that  he  beat  him  to  the  earth, 
and  left  his  body  for  the  crows  and  vultures  of  the  air  to  prey  upon. 
Thus  did  the  spirit  of  implacable  revenge  find  place  in  the  same  heart 
which  was  just  opening  anew  to  the  genial  influences  of  affection. 


106  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEKIR. 

Que-la-wah  suffered  not  beyond  his  just  deserts.  The  ruthless 
invader  of  the  domestic  sanctuary  is  held  a  savage  among  savages, 
and  un%yorthy  to  enjoy  the  boon  of  life. 

Omaint-si-ar-nali  dispatched  liis  warriors  and  chosen  men,  while  he 
and  Gray-Eagle  set  their  fiices  due  north  to  hunt  up  the  nest  of  Gen- 
tle Dove.  A  secret  voice  assured  him  that  she  still  lived.  For  three 
days  they  travelled  to  no  purpose,  calling  loudly,  wherever  they  went, 
the  name  of  Nito-mc-ma. 

"A  cruel  husband,"  said  the  chief,  sorrowfully,  "who  banishes  his 
wife,  puts  her,  indeed,  afar  off.  Great  is  the  interval  betwixt  them. 
Moons  wax  and  wane.  Rivers  flow.  Time  and  distance  interpose 
their  great  gulfs.  There  is  no  straight  line ; '  we  wander  uncertain,  for 
the  ways  of  the  ungrateful  are  crooked." 

On  the  fourth  day,  Omaint-si-ar-nah  found  an  arrow  sticking  in  an 
oak,  and  beneath  it  were  hieroglyphic  symbols  lately  cut,  for  the 
wounded  bark  had  not  long  healed  over  them.  Here  was  the  spot 
where  the  lurking  traitor  stood  who  had  since  met  his  doom.  The 
chief  examined  the  inscription  carefully,  then  clapped  his  hands  and 
uttered  a  slight  yell.  Gray-Eagle  made  a  signal  from  a  distance. 
On  the  margin  of  a  brook  he  had  discovered  the  tiny  foot-prints  of  a 
child,  and  near  by  were  pebbles  and  smooth  stones  arranged  upon  the 
sands,  while  a  critical  scrutiny  of  the  surrounding  places  showed  that 
the  twigs  had  been  slightly  bent  aside  or  broken.  EolloM-ing  these 
indications  for  several  hours,  and  often  losing  the  faint  trail  toward 
sun-down,  Omaint-si-ar-nah  paused  suddenly. 

"  I  smell  the  smell  of  smoke,"  said  he.  "  Wigwams  arc  not  far 
off."  lie  put  his  ear  close  to  the  ground,  then  rose  up,  tightened  his 
girdle,  and  called  Gray-Eagle  to  his  side.  "Advance,"  said  he,  mov- 
ing with  rapidity,  "  let  not  the  grass  grow  in  the  path."  As  the  day 
declined,  they  came  upon  the  certain  signs  of  a  habitation.  The  earth 
was  well  tracked  and  beaten  in  diverging  foot-paths,  the  sound  of 
voices  began  to  be  heard,  and  the  low  chaunting  of  an  Indian  song. 
At  last  tl]e  bower  f>f  Gentle  Dove  appeared  in  sight.  She  sat  without 
it  in  the  shade,  engagt'd  in  painting  and  in  decorating  barken  sandals, 
and  busily  intent  upon  her  work,  Morning-Glory  was  feeding  the 
tame   buffalo  with  handfiils   of  the  wild   clover.     Omaint-si-ar-nah 


GENTLE    DOVE.  101 

remained  unobserved  for  a  few  moments ;  then  he  commanded  Gray 
Eagle  to  stand  at  a  distance,  and,  silently  approaching,  stood  before 
his  wife.  Confounded  at  his  sudden  presence,  she  rose  up,  and  was 
deprived  of  speech.  A  sudden  pallor  diffused  itself  over  her  features, 
and  she  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf  in  the  breeze.  The  chief  lifted 
her  in  his  arms ;  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom ;  he  kissed  her  cold 
brow  again  and  again,  and  as  he  smoothed  down  her  glossy  locks  with 
his  hand,  and  spoke  in  the  accents  of  tenderness,  big  tears  rolled  do-svn 
his  scarred  and  furrowed  countenance.  Nito-me-ma  dropped  her  head 
upon  hi§  shoulder  and  wept,  then  beckoning  to  Morning-Glory,  lightly 
and  gracefully  the  child  came  leaping  to  her  mother.  Omaint-si-ar- 
nah  burst  into  a  loud  yell  of  extreme  delight.  He  caught  her  in  his 
arms,  adorned  her  neck  with  tinkling  ornaments,  and  called  her 
Dancing  Fawn,  and  Rippling  Rill,  and  Waving  Feather,  and  all  the 
endearing  titles  which  he  knew,  but  she  said  her  name  was  Morning 
Glory.  She  did  not  fear  the  warrior's  savage  aspect,  and  with  her 
earliest  speech  she  had  been  taught  the  name  of  father.  Omaint-si 
ar-nah  beckoned  to  Gray-Eagle,  who  still  kept  aloof^  and  told  him  to 
approach.  Then  Nito-me-ma  prepared  a  sumptuous  entertainment 
for  her  guests ;  smoked  meats,  and  cakes  of  Indian  maize,  and  snow 
white  milk,  and  honey-comb,  and  dainties  long  laid  up.  Pleasantly 
the  time  passed  in  mutual  narrative,  and  on  the  morrow  they  pre- 
pared to  hurry  back  to  the  deserted  camp.  Great  was  the  joy  of  the 
whole  tribe  on  the  return  of  Gentle  Dove  and  Morning-Glory.  Three 
whole  days  were  spent  in  rejoicing.  Feasts  were  spread  in  profusion 
while  the  young  amused  themselves  with  dances  and  wrestling  and 
ball-play,  and  the  sports  adapted  to  their  age. 

The  second  nuptials  were  never  marred  by  bitterness  or  grief. 
Moon  followed  moon,  and  plenty  blessed  the  tribe,  which  laid  aside 
the  hatchet  as  if  a  peaceful  angel  came  into  their  midst.  A  Christian 
church  now  stands  upon  the  spot  where  the  poor  pilgrim  raised  her 
cross  within  the  hollow  of  the  tree,  and  the  sweet  sound  of  Sunday 
chimes  invites  the  worshippers  of  God.  Omaint-si-ar-nah  lost  his 
savage  nature,  though  he  did  not  openly  profess  the  faith  of  Christ  ; 
but  when  the  evening  of  his  days  came  on,  and  she  who  had  been  true 
to  him  till  death  slept  with  her  fathers  in  the  quiet  grave,  to  children 


108  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

grouped  around  in  listening  attitudes,  the  old  man  loved  to  call  up 
memories  of  the  past,  and  tell  the  story  of  his  long-lost  Gentle 
Dove. 

Note.  —  For  many  of  the  facta  contained  in  the  above  legend,  the  author  is 
indebted  to  a  poem  called  "  Black  Hawk,"  wTitten  by  Elbert  H.  Suttd 


/^ 


A   FBAGilENT    PROM    THE   LIST   CANTO    OF  "ULRIC,   OR   THE    VOICES." 


THEODORE 


[The  following  fragment  is  the  concluding  canto  of  the  second  unpublished  part  of  a  poem 
written  in  1S46  and  47.  The  first  part  appeared  under  the  name  of  "  Vlrio  ;  or,  the  Voices.'"  There 
is  a  period  of  ten  years  between  the  two  parts.  Ejemelixe's  sou,  Fritz,  has  grown  into  a  youth  of 
nineteen.  In  rather  a  strong  contrast  to  the  present  state  of  the  eastern  continent,  where  a  new 
crusade  appears  being  organized,  not  against,  but  in  favor  of  Islamism,  the  Ottoman  govern- 
ment, after  possessing  itself  of  the  most  beautiful  and  celebrated  countries  of  the  ancient  oriental 
world,  conceived  the  ambitious  design  of  subjugating  Europe  to  the  faith  of  the  Prophet. 
Weakened  and  distracted  by  cinl  wars,  the  Christian  princes  might  well  tremble  to  behold  Con- 
stantinople the  seat  of  the  Sultan,  and  the  Crescent  advancing  to  Venice,  Vienna,  and  Bavaria. 
SoLYMAN  II.,  furious  at  his  defeat  by  the  knights  of  St.  John,  in  the  island  of  Malta,  had  invaded 
Hungary  ^vith  a  powerful  army,  and  laid  siege  to  Sigeth,  the  bulwark  of  Styria  against  the  Turk. 

Uleic  had  promised  to  join  his  standard  to  that  of  the  noble  Count  Zekrini  (according  to  a  cus- 
tom of  those  days)  whenever  the  Turkish  forces  should  again  threaten  Europe.  He  reached 
Sigeth  with  his  forces  just  before  the  formidable  army  had  approached  its  walls.  Both  Uleic  and 
Zeekini  believed  that  the  European  Maximilian  II.,  who  lay  in  the  neighborhood  with  an  army 
not  inferior  to  that  of  the  besiegers,  would  at  least  attempt  its  relief;  and  on  the  supposition  that 
60  noble  an  enterprise  would  be  almost  certainly  victorious,  and  would  open  a  brilliant  career  tc 
the  sou  of  Emmeline,  he  had  taken  him  as  one  of  his  aides.  Arrived  at  Sigeth,  it  transpired  that 
the  Emperor  had  resolved  not  to  aid  the  city ;  and  death  now  stared  in  the  face  of  every  ont 
within  the  fatal  walls  of  Sigeth.  The  canto  opens  at  the  moment  when  Zeeeini  and  Uleic  had 
adopted  the  desperate  expedient  of  cutting  their  way  out.  This  celebrated  action  of  Zeeeini  is  a 
weU-known  historical  incident.  The  Turks  left  80,000  dead  on  the  field.  Soltman  died  during 
the  siege.  His  successor  granted  Maximilian  a  twelve  years'  truce.  Zeeeini,  as  the  poem 
relates,  fell  while  cutting  his  way  out  of  the  fortress.] 

Haek  !  hark  1  the  thunder  I  not  of  Heaven, 
But  that  which  Hell  to  earth  has  given. 

Hark  1  peal  on  peal  resound  I 
Where  the  hot  battle  fiercely  bums, 
The  cannon's  fiery  fury  turns 
On  Sigeth's  gate.    Hark  I  madly  tear 
Each  crash  along  the  broken  air. 
Death  and  destniction  madly  glare, 

And  shake  the  aff'ighted  ground 


110  THE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEXIR. 

And  'niid  their  solemn  anthem  rise, 
Troubhng  tlie  soft  astonished  skies, 
Deep  howls  of  hate,  and  yells  of  pain, 
And  shrieks  of  death  that  pierce  the  brain, 
And  fiends'  discordant  glee, 
And  clashing  steel  and  oatlis  of  rage, 
Vain  praj'ers  beneath  the  sabre's  edge, 

And  shouts  of  victory. 
Amid  the  rout  Hell's  master  stood, 
And  saw  his  work,  that  it  was  good. 

Ha !  will  the  wreaths,  slow-rolling  by, 
Of  hea\y  smoke,  for  ever  Uo 
Upon  tliat  group,  and  veil  its  fate. 
Which  issues  from  the  castle  gate  ? 
Xow  wafts  the  breeze  the  rising  cloud : 
On !  on !  their  foes  around  them  crowd. 
Hark  !  Ulric's  voice,  like  trumpet  loud. 

His  lagging  men  to  cliide. 
forward  his  sable  courser  springs, 
And  his  dread  sword,  which  terror  winga, 
As  'gainst  each  flasliing  blade  it  rings. 

Drips  with  the  crimson  tide. 

"W  ith  huu,  what  warrior,  fiercely  bright, 
Cuts  his  way  onward  through  the  fight  ? 
It  IS  Zekrixi,  and  between. 
Half  'mid  the  battle's  fury  seen 
That  bold  boy -hero  I     How  would  start, 
0  Emmelfxe  !  thy  mother's  heart, 

If,  with  unhebned  brow, 
'Mid  cannon  crash  and  gory  stream, 
And  wliistlJng  bidl  and  sabre  gleam. 
As  in  some  dark  delirious  dream. 

Thou  couldst  behold  him  now ; 
Couldst  mark  how  near  each  hot  ball  hissed 
That  cheek  thy  lips  so  oft  have  kissed  ; 
And  how  each  sabre's  deadly  blow 
"Would  deep  have  cleft  that  laughing  brow, 
But  for  one  arm  whoso  watchful  blade 
Ever  like  lightning  round  him  played, 
•  Iiitiiit  fmin  harm  to  shield. 


THE    DEATH    OF    ULRIC. 

If  once,  amid  tliat  iron  rain, 
Ton  broken  bridge  their  steeds  can  gain, 
They  're  safe  —  yet  no  I    They  strive  in  vain, 
'T  is  their  last  battle-field. 

But  look  I  hurnih!  new  shouts  resound  1 
Their  foes  give  way,  and  bite  the  ground. 
And  Uke  some  strong  uprooted  oak, 

Contending  with  the  blast, 
Slow  yielding  to  the  tempest  stroke. 
Now  wavering  'mid  the  billowy  smoke, 
That  torn  and  flamiting  Crescent  look  1 

Stoops  to  the  dust  at  last. 

There,  'mid  the  battle's  wildest  storm. 
Erect,  Zerrint's  glorious  form 

Uptowers  lilce  a  god. 
With  shout,  resomidiug  wUd  and  lar 
Above  the  mad  discordant  war. 
He  cheei-s  lus  men,  "On!  on!  hurraJil" 
But,  now,  St.  Steven  !  to  the  ground, 
Borne,  hke  the  stag,  by  fierce  blood-houud, 
O'erwhelmed  with  many  a  mortal  wound 
He  falls,  our  eyes  no  more  to  greet. 
Crushed  'mid  wiJd  horses'  iron  feet, 

A  trampled,  broken  clod. 

On !  on  1  'mid  shout  and  dying  groan, 
Now  Ulric  and  the  boy  are  down  1 
But  no !  they  rise ;  o'er  heaps  of  slain 
Forward  their  snorting  chargers  strain ; 
The  masses  break  apart  again. 

Their  foes,  they  reel ;  they  fly ! 
"With  then-  sharp  swords  they  cut  theu-  way, 
Uninjured,  through  the  reckless  fray. 
The  bridge  1  the  bridge  !  they  gain  the  day  I 

"  On  !  death  or  victory !" 

Oh,  gallant  Fritz  !  not  yet,  not  yet  I 
Beware  that  furious,  hot  onset, 
With  fijuning  eyes,  together  four 
Against  thee  rusli.     One  struggle  more !      • 


111 


112  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Tlirice  the  sliarp  sabro  to  thy  brow  I 

Thrice  Ulric's  s\\-ifl  hand  wards  the  blow  — 

Wards  and  avenges  well  —  for  low 

They  ho  who  struck.     Each  recreant  dies  I 

The  last  survivor,  panting,  flies; 
But  e'er  liis  Arab  steed  he  pressed 
He  turned  to  aun  at  Fritz's  breast 

One  wingod  ball  of  hate. 
Now,  Ulric  !  speed !     In  Sultan's  flank, 
Deep,  deep  the  spur,  encriuisoned,  sank, 

Alas !  too  late !  too  late ! 
He  sees  his  sword,  so  swift  and  keen, 
All  useless  now,  but  rides  between, 

Witli  one  convulsive  bound ; 
And  then  the  flash,  the  smoke,  tiie  shout, 
The  clear  report  rang  sharply  out. 
The  deatUy  messenger  ho  feels ; 
Starts  sudden,  in  his  saddle  reels. 

Then  sinks  upon  the  ground  ! 

Fritz  springs  to  save  him  I  sees,  oli  Death  I 
Thy  heavy  hand  !     Thy  failing  brcatii. 

Th}'  smotlicred  groan  of  pain  ! 
To  stanch,  he  strives,  the  bubbling  blood, 
Outgushing  in  a  s^'oUen  flood, 

A  dreadful  task,  and  vain. 

"  Oh,  general  I  Oh,  fatal  strife ! 
For  nunc  thou  gavest  thy  precious  life ! 
The  ball  was  meant  for  me !" 
"That  flnng  fellow  sent  it  home, 
Tlis  aim  was  good;  my  hour  hnth  come  — 
My  hour  of  victory." 

And  now  from  Fritz's  wliite  cheek  flowed 
The  hue,  that  all  the  battle  stood ; 

And  dropped  his  blinded  eyes. 
•'Oh,  fatal,  fatal  day!"  ho  said, 
As  o'lT  thiit  brow  the  death-damp  spread; 


THE    DEATH    OF    ULRIC. 

And  still  streamed  forth  the  purple  tide; 
"  So  late,  aloft,  I  saw  him  ride, 
In  all  life's  grandeur  and  its  pride ; 
Now,  here  he  lies." 

'Yes,  yes,  in  death  the  warrior  laj. 
Each  moment  ebbed  his  life  away, 
The  helm  unloosed,  the  forehead  bare, 
Upraised  to  Heaven  in  silent  prayer. 
Then  gently  spoke:  "Dear  Fritz,  no,  no, 
"T  is  vain,  't  is  vain ;  let  —  let  it  flow ! 
"Weep  not  for  me.     Death  is  no  theme 
For  weeping.     It  most  sweet  doth  seem 

To  yield  my  breath. 
Oh  I  nothing  m  this  world  hath  been 
So  slandered,  with  thy  friendly  mien. 
Thy  face,  so  hopeful,  so  serene, 
As  thou,  oh  Death  1" 

"  Sweet,  pitying  Heaven  !  my  heart  wiU  breakl 

"  My  breath,  it  fails ;  poor  Sultan  take 
My  parting  gift,  and  for  my  sake 
Be  gentle  with  hun,  Fritz  ;  and  when 
Thou  reachest  Rudolstadt  again, 
And  ridest  him,  all  joyous,  on 
Through  wood  and  vale,  o'er  hill  and  lawu, 

Each  sylvan  path  I  see ! 
The  mossy  steep,  the  silent  wood, 
Look!  how  the  yellow  golden  flood. 
The  very  spot  on  which  we  stood, 

Bid  her  remember  me." 

"Oh,  dearest  friend!  oh,  gracious  Heaven! 

His  senses  wander " 

"  I  have  striven, 
Not  all  in  vain,  and  now  the  spell 
I  break  at  last.     Sweet  boy,  farewell ! 
Thy  hand !  I  die  —  all  cold  —  all  dark ! 

ily  blessmg  to  thy  ra .     Hark !  hark ! 

They  call!  what  bright  forms  round  me  gather! 
Ha!  yes;  my  blessing  to  thy  father!" 


113 


J  14  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Oh  DEAxn !  bow  beautiful,  how  still  I 
As  if  some  sculptor's  wondrous  skill. 
Out  of  the  cold  and  lifeless  stone 
That  noble  warrior  form  had  hewn. 
Over  the  marble  features  stole 
A  hght,  as  rose  the  parting  soul, 
And  then,  descending  o'er  tlie  plain, 
Floats  softly  an  angelic  strain 
Of  voices  airj'  sweet,  that  seem 
A  loving  thought,  a  tender  dream. 
It  lingers  not,  that  passing  choir, 
But  slow  recedes,  and  rises  higher, 
Fainter  and  fainter ;  now  it  dies. 
Uncertain,  in  the  farthest  skies. 

Ulric,  farewell !     Th}-  painful  task  is  done, 
Thy  battle  with  the  Prince  of  Hell  is  won. 
Faith's  narrow  path  thy  child-like  soul  hath  trod. 
Thou  hast  believed,  obeyed,  and  worshipped  Gou 

And  thus  a  Christian  spirit,  free  at  last, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  wearj-ing  sin  hath  passed, 
From  its  hard  warfare  with  Hell's  potent  might : 
Good  against  evil;  darkness  against  liglit. 
Victorious  o'er  the  Avorld,  its  sorrows  ended. 
And  through  Dcatii's  gates  by  angel  forms  attended. 

And  thus,  oh  reader !  whatsoe'er  thou  art, 
•  Or  high  or  low,  or  rich  or  poor,  tliy  pan, 

Thus,  in  its  hour,  thy  spirit,  too,  may  rise 
From  earth's  short  sufl'erings  to  the  liappy  skiea, 
If  thou  but  care  to  choose  aright  between 
The  curse  and  blessing  of  this  lower  scene ; 
If  thou  but  mark,  as  by  God's  help  we  may, 
Hell's  filthy  laughter,  as  thou  go'st  astray. 
And  the  clear  voices  cjxlling  thee  again. 
With  many  a  secret  tone  and  thrilling  strair , 
Voices,  perchance,  now  floating,  faint  and  /iir, 
From  some  light  cloud  or  quiet  gazing  star. 
While  now,  with  trumpet  tones,  they  burst  ami  roll 
Up  from  the  depths  of  thy  eternal  soul. 


THE    DEATH    OF    ULRIC. 

Oh  mortal !  listen  to  them.    Learn  to  know 

Those  earnest  voices,  whencesoe'er  they  flow. 

Watch  for  them  I     Listen !     Mark  them  and  obey  1 

Follow  not  thou  the  Evil  One's  soft  way, 

For  all  his  art  can  give.     "When,  at  thy  side, 

He  stands  and  whispers  thoughts  of  lust  and  pride, 

From  his  vLle  spells,  by  prayer  thy  spirit  free, 

And  break  away,  how  sweet  soe'er  they  be. 

For  sweet,  oh  God  !  they  are,  and  liis  old  throne 

Too  firmly  set  for  thee  to  move  alone. 

Oh,  sorcerer !  full  many  a  wondi'ous  charm 

He  knows  to  banish  doubt  and  hush  alarm. 

Thy  eyes  to  veil,  and  so  to  sway  thy  thought, 

Clasped  in  his  arms,  thou  stUl  beUevest  not. 

All  bright  things  of  the  earth,  oh !  mystery  1 

Are  sometimes  lent,  his  instruments  to  be ; 

Nature's  fair  visions,  music,  moonlight,  love ; 

All  that  they  will  may  captivate  and  move, 

Soft  vales  and  mountains,  summer-days  and  floTeraL 

And  golden  hopes  that  wing  youth's  airy  hours. 

Science  and  taste  and  intellect  refined. 

The  noble  heart  and  the  aspiring  mind , 

The  fatal  trust  in  conscious  innocence 

Whatever  wakes  the  soul,  or  wins  the  sense, 

There  lies  the  dark  foe  'mid  the  roses  curled, 

Bnt  One  alone  can  overcome  the  world. 


115 


/^-z^^ 


€^tm  '§d^u^L 


FEEDEEIO     3.    0OZZBH» 


"  My  eyes  make  pictures  when  they  are  shut." 


In  one  of  those  villages  peculiar  to  our  Eastern  coast,  whose  long 
lines  of  pepper-and-salt  stone-fences  indicate  laborious  if  not  profit- 
able farming,  and  the  saline  breath  of  the  ocean  has  the  effect  of 
making  fruit-trees  more  picturesque  than  productive,  in  a  stone 
chunk  of  a  house,  whose  aspect  is  quite  as  interesting  to  the  geologist 
as  to  the  architect,  lives  Captain  Belgrave. 

The  Captain,  as  he  says  himself,  "  is  American  clean  through, 
on  the  father's  side,  up  to  Plymouth  Rock,  and  knows  little,  and  cares 
less,  of  what  is  beyond  that."  To  hear  him  talk,  you  would  suppose 
Adam  and  Eve  had  landed  there  from  the  May-Flower,  and  the 
Garden  of  Eden  was  located  within  rifle  distance  of  that  celebrated 
land-mark.  His  genealogical  table,  however,  stands  upon  unequal 
legs ;  for,  on  his  mother's  side  he  is  part  German  and  part  Irishman. 
I  mention  this  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  believe  that  certain 
qualities  in  men  are  hereditary.  Of  course  it  will  be  easy  for  them 
to  assign  those  of  Captain  Belgrave  to  their  proper  source. 

The  house  is  square,  and  not  remarkable  except  for  its  stone 
turret  on  one  corner.  This,  rising  from  the  ground  some  forty  feet, 
embroidered  with  ivy,  and  pierced  with  arrow-slits,  has  rather  a 
feudal  look.  It  stands  in  a  by-lane,  apart  from  the  congregated 
village.  On  the  right  side  of  the  road  is  a  plashy  spring,  somewhat 
redolent  of  mint  in  the  summer.     Opposite  to  this,  in  a  clump  of 


118  THE    ATLANnC    SOUVENIR. 

oaks,  surrounded  with  a  picket-fence,  is  the  open  porch,  with  broad 
wooden  benches,  and  within  is  an  ample  hall,  looking  out  upon  well- 
cultivated  fields,  and  beyond  —  blue  water  !  This  is  the  "  Oakery,"  as 
Captain  Belgravc  calls  it.  Here  he  lives  with  his  brother  Adol- 
phus  —  bachelors  both. 

Ilis  title  is  a  mystery.  There  is  a  legend  in  the  village,  that  in 
the  last  war  Belgrave  was  enrolled  in  the  militia  on  some  frontier. 
One  night  he  was  pacing  as  sentinel  on  a  long  wooden  piazza  in  front 
of  the  General's  quarters.  It  was  midnight ;  the  camp  was  asleep, 
and  the  moon  was  just  sinking  in  a  bank  of  clouds.  Belgravc  heard 
a  footstep  on  the  stairs  at  the  end  of  the  piazza.  "  Who  goes  there  1" 
No  answer.  Another  step.  "  "Who  goes  there  ?"  he  repeated,  and 
his  heart  began  to  fail  him.  No  answer — but  another  step.  He 
cocked  his  musket.  Step,  step,  step,  and  then  between  him  and 
the  sinking  moon  appeared  an  enormous  head  decorated  with  dia- 
bolical horns.  Belgrave  drew  a  long  breath  and  fired.  The  next 
instant  the  spectre  was  upon  him ;  he  was  knocked  down ;  the 
drums  beat  to  arms ;  the  guard  turned  out,  and  found  the  sentinel 
stretched  upon  the  floor,  wath  an  old  he-goat,  full  of  defiance  and 
odor,  standing  on  him.     From  that  time  he  was  called  "  Captain." 

No  place,  though  it  be  a  paradise,  is  perfect  without  one  of  the 
gentler  sex.  There  is  a  lady  at  the  Oakery.  Miss  Augusta  Belgrave 
is  a  maiden  of  about  —  let  me  see  ;  her  age  was  formerly  inscribed 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  the  family  Bible  between  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ments ;  but  the  page  was  torn  out,  and  now  it  is  somewhere  in  the 
Apocrypha.  No  matter  what  it  may  be ;  if  you  were  to  see  her, 
you  would  say  she  was  safe  over  the  breakers.  Two  unmarried 
brothers,  with  a  spinster  sister,  living  alone:  it  is  not  unfreqiicnt 
in  old  families.  The  rest  of  the  household  may  be  embraced  in 
Hannah,  the  help,  who  is  also  "a  maiden  all  forlorn,"  and  Jim,  the 
stable-boy.  Jim  is  a  unit,  as  well  as  the  rest.  Jim  has  been  a 
stable-boy  all  his  life,  and  now,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  is  only  a  boy 
ripened.  His  chief  pride  and  glory  is  to  drive  a  pair  of  bob-tailed 
bay  trotters  that  arc  (traditionally)  fiist !  Adol[>hus,  who  has  a  turn 
for  literature,  christened  the  ofl*-horse  "Spectator;"  but  the  near 
horse  came  from  a  bankrupt  wine-broker,  who  named  him  "  Chateau 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE.  119 

Margaux."     This  the  Captain  reduced  to  "  Shatto,"  and  the  village 
people  corrupted  to  "  Shatter !" 

There  was  something  bold  and  jaunty  in  the  way  the  Captain  used 
to  drive  old  Shatter  on  a  dog-trot  through  the  village,  (Spectator 
rarely  went  with  his  mate  except  to  church  on  Sundays,)  with  squared 
elbows,  and  whip  depending  at  a  just  angle  over  the  dash-board. 
"  Talk  of  your  fost  horses !"  he  Avould  say.  "  Why,  if  I  would  only 
let  him  out,"  pointing  his  whip,  like  a  marshal's  baton,  toward 
Shatter,  "  you  would  see  time  /"     But  he  never  lets  him  out. 

The  square  turret  rises  considerably  above  the  house-roof  Every 
night,  at  bed-time,  the  villagers  see  a  light  shining  through  its  narrow 
loop-holes.  There  are  loop-holes  in  the  room  below,  and  strong  case- 
ments of  ordinary  size  in  the  rooms  adjoining.  In  the  one  next  to  it 
Miss  Augusta  sleeps,  as  all  the  village  knows,  for  she  is  seen  at  times 
looking  out  of  the  window.  Next  to  that  is  another  room,  in  which 
A-dolphus  sleeps.  He  is  often  seen  looking  out  of  that  window. 
Next,  again,  to  that  is  the  vestal  chamber  of  Hannah,  on  the  south- 
west corner  of  the  house.  She  is  sometimes  seen  looking  out  of  the 
window  on  either  side.  Next  to  that  again  is  the  dormitory  of  Jim. 
the  stable-boy.  Jim  always  smells  like  a  menagerie,  and  so  does  his 
room,  no  doubt.  He  never  looks  out  of  the  window  except  upon  the 
Fourth  of  July,  when  there  is  too  much  noise  in  the  village  to  risk 
driving  Spec  and  Shat.  No  living  person  but  the  occupants  has 
ever  been  in  that  story  of  the  house.  No  living  person  understands 
the  mystery  of  the  tower.  The  light  appears  at  night  through  the 
loop-holes  in  the  second  story,  then  flashes  upward,  shines  again 
through  the  slits  in  the  lofty  part  of  the  turret,  burns  steadily  half 
an  hour  or  so,  and  then  vanishes.     Who  occupies  that  lonely  turret  1 

Let  us  take  the  author-privilege  and  ascend  the  stairs.  First  we 
come  to  Jim's  room  ;  we  pass  through  that  into  Hannah's  apartment. 
There  is  a  bolt  on  the  inside  of  her  door  ;  we  pass  on  into  the  loom 
of  Adolphus  ;  it,  too,  has  a  bolt  on  the  inside.  Now  all  the  virtues 
guide  and  protect  us,  for  we  are  in  the  sleeping-apartment  of  the 
spinster  sister !  It,  too,  has  a  bolt  on  the  inside  ;  and  here  we  are  m 
the  tower :  the  door,  like  the  rest,  is  bolted.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
room  but  the  carpet  on  the  floor ;  no  stair-iase,  but  a  trap-door  in  the 


120  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVEXIR. 

ceiling.  It  is  but  a  short  flight  for  fancy  to  reach  the  upper  story. 
The  trap  is  bolted  in  the  floor  ;  there  is  a  ladder  standing  beside  it ; 
here  are  chairs,  a  bureau,  a  table,  with  an  extinguished  candle,  and 
the  moonlight  fivlls  in  a  narrow  strip  across  the  features  of  Captain 
Belgrave,  fist  asleep,  and  beside  him  a  Bible,  and  an  enormous  horse- 
pistol,  loaded. 

Nowhere  but  in  the  household  of  some  old  bachelor  could  such 
discipline  exist  as  in  the  Oakery.  At  night  the  Captain  is  the  first  to 
retire ;  Miss  Augusta  follows  with  a  pair  of  candlesticks  and  candles ; 
then  metaphysical  Adolphus  with  his  mind  in  painful  state  of  fermen- 
tation ;  then  Hannah,  the  help,  with  a  small  brass  candlestick  ;  then 
Jim,  the  stable-boy,  who  usually  waits  until  the  company  is  on  the 
top-stair,  when  he  makes  a  false  start,  breaks,  pulls  himself  up,  and 
gets  into  a  square  trot  just  in  time  to  save  being  distanced  at  the  , 
landing.  Adolphus  and  Jim  are  not  trusted  with  candles.  Miss 
Augusta  is  rigorous  on  that  point.  She  permits  the  Captain  to  have 
one  because  he  is  careful  with  it;  beside,  he  owns  the  house  and 
every  thing  in  it ;  the  land  and  every  thing  on  it ;  and  supports  the 
fixmily  ;  therefore  his  sister  indulges  him.  We  now  understand  the 
internal  arrangement  of  the  Oakery.  It  is  a  fort,  a  castle,  a  citadel, 
of  which  Augusta  is  the  scarp,  Jim  the  glacis,  Hannah  the  counter- 
scarp, and  Adolphus  the  ditch.  Tlic  Captain  studied  the  science  of 
fortification  after  his  return  from  the  wars. 

The  Belgraves  are  intimate  only  with  one  family  in  the  village, 
and  they  are  new  acquaintances  —  the  Mewkers.  Tliere  is  Mr. 
Mewker,  Mrs.  Mewker,  Mrs.  Lasciver,  formerly  Miss  Mewker,  and 
six  or  seven  little  Mewkers.  Mewker  has  the  reputation  of  being  a 
good  man,  but  unfortunately  his  appearance  is  not  prepossessing. 
lie  has  large  bunchy  feet,  with  very  ineflectual  legs,  low  shoulders, 
a  sunken  chest,  a  holloAV  cavity  under  the  waistcoat,  little,  weak, 
eyes  that  seem  set  in  bladders,  straggling  hair,  rusty  whiskers, 
black,  and  yellow  teeth,  and  long,  skinny,  disagreeable  fingers; 
beside,  he  is  knock-kneed,  shuniing  in  gait,  and  always  leans  on  one 
side  when  he  wftlks.  Uncharitable  people  say  he  leans  on  the  side 
where  his  interests  lie,  but  Captain  Belgrave  will  not  believe  a  word 
of  it.    Oh  !  no ;  Mewker  is  a  dilferent  man  from  that.    He  is  a  mem- 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE. 


121 


ber  of  the  church,  and  sings  in  the  choir.  He  is  executor  of  several 
estates,  and  of  couKse  takes  care  of  the  orphans  and  widows.  He 
holds  the  church  money  in  trust,  and  of  course  handles  it  solely  to 
promote  its  interests.  And  then  he  is  so  deferential,  so  polite,  so 
charitable.  "  Never,"  says  the  Captain,  "  did  I  hear  him  speak  ill  of 
any  body,  but  he  lets  me  into  the  worst  points  of  my  neighbors  by 
jest  teching  on  'em,  and  then  he  excuses  their  fibles,  as  if  he  was  kind 
o'  sorry  for  'em  ;  but  I  keeps  my  eye  onto  'em  after  the  hints  he  give 
me,  and  he  can't  blind  me  to  them." 

Harriet  Lasciver,  formerly  Miss  Mewkcr,  is  a  widow,  perfectly 
delicious  in  dimples  and  dimity,  fond  of  high  life  and  low-necked 
dresses,  music,  birds,  and  camclias.  Captain  Belgrave  has  a  great 
fuicy  for  the  charming  widow.  This  is  a  secret,  however.  You  and  I 
know  it,  and  so  does  Meivker. 

It  is  Sunday  in  Little-Crampton  —  a  summer  Sunday.     The  old 
fashioned  flowers  are  blooming  in  the  old-fashioned  gardens,  and  the 
last  vibration  of  the  old  rusty  bell  in  the  century-old  belfry  seems 
dying  off,  and  melting  away  in  fragrance.     Outside,  the  village  is 
quiet,  but  within  the  church  there  is  an  incessant  plying  of  fans  and 
rustling  of  dresses.     The  Belgraves  are  landed  at  the  porch,  and 
Spec  and  Shat  whirl  the  family  carriage  into  the  grave-yard.     The 
Mewkers  enter  with  due  decorum.     Adolphus  drops  his  hymn-book 
into  the  pew  in  front,  as  he  always  does.     The  little  flatulent  organ 
works  through  the  voluntary.     The  sleek  head  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Spat 
is  projected  toward  the  audience  out  of  the  folds  of  his  cambric 
handkerchief;  and  after  doing  as  much  damage  to  the  simple  and 
beautiful  service  as  he  can  by  reading  it,  flourishes  through  the  regular 
old  Spatsonian  sermon;   its  tiresome  repetitions   and  plagiarisms, 
with  the  same  old  rising  and  falling  inflections,  the  same  old  tremu- 
lous tone  toward  the  end,  as  if  he  were  crying ;  the  same  old  recu- 
perative method  by  which  he  recovers  his  lost  voice  in  the  last 
sentence,  when  it  was  all  but  gone ;  and  the  same  old  gesture  by 
which  the  audience  understand  that  his  labors  (and  theirs)  are  over 
for   the  morning.     Then   the  congregation  departs  with  the  usual 
accompaniments  of  dresses  rustling,  and  pew-doors  slamming ;  and 
Mr.  Meeker  descends  from  the  choir  and  sidles  up  the  aisle,  nursing 


122  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEKIR. 

his  knobs  of  elbows  in  his  skinny  fingers,  and  congratulates  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Spat  upon  the  excellent  discourse  he  had  delivered,  and  receives 
the  customary  quid  2vro  quo  in  the  shape  of  a  compliment  upon  the 
excellent  singing  in  the  choir.  This  account  ailjustcd,  ^fr.  Mewker 
shuffles  home  beside  the  lovely  widow ;  and  Mrs.  Mewker  and  the 
small  fry  of  members  follow  in  their  wake. 

"I  have  looked  into  the  records  in  the  county  clerk's  office," 
Mewker  says,  in  a  whisper,  to  his  sister,  "  and  the  property  is  all 
right.  That  old  Tiling,  (unconscious  Augusta  Belgravc,  rolling 
home  behind  Spec  and  Shat,  do  you  hear  this])  that  old  Thing, 
and  that  fool  of  a  book-worm  (Adolphus)  can  be  packed  off  after 
the  wedding,  and  then  we  can  arrange  matters  between  us.  Spat 
understands  mc  in  this,  and  intends  to  be  hand  and  glove  with  Bel- 
grave,  so  as  to  work  upon  him.  Ilfc  will,  he  must  do  it,  for  he  knowS 
that  his  remaining  in  this  church  depends  upon  me."  Here  Mr. 
Mewker  was  interrupted  by  one  of  the  young  Mewkers,  who  came 
running  up,  hat  in  hand.  "Oh!  pa,  look  there !  see  those  beautiful 
climbing  roses  growing  all  over  that  old  tree!"  "Jacob,"  said 
Mewker,  catching  him  by  the  hair,  and  rapping  his  head  with  his 
bony  knuckles  until  the  tears  came,  "  have  n't  I  told  you  not  to  speak 
of  such  trivial  things  on  the  Sabbath?  How  dare  you  (with  a 
repetition  of  raps)  think  of  climbing  roses  so  soon  after  church  ? 
Go ;  (with  a  fresh  clutch  in  the  scalp  of  Mewker,  Junior,)  go  to  your 
mother,  and  when  I  get  home  I  will  punish  you."  Mr.  !Mewker 
resumed  the  whispered  conversation.  "Belgrave  is  ruled  entirely 
by  his  sister,  but  between  Spat  and  I,  she  can  be  blinded,  I  think.  If 
she  should  suspect,  now,  she  would  interfere,  of  course,  and  Belgrave 
would  not  dare  to  disobey  her.  But  if  we  can  get  him  committed 
once  in  some  wa}',  he  is  such  a  coward  that  he  would  be  entirely 
in  my  power.  Dear,"  he  said  aloud  to  Mrs.  M.,  "how  did  you 
like  the  sermon  1"  "Angelic,"  replies  Mrs.  Mewker.  "That's  my 
opinion,  too,"  responds  Mewker.  "Angelic,  angelic.  Spat  is  a  lovely 
man,  my  dear.     "NVliat  is  there  for  dinner  ?" 

If  there  were  some  feminine  meter  by  which  Harriet  Laseiver's 
soul  could  be  measured,  it  would  indicate  "good"  pretty  high  uj>  on 
the  scale.     Yet  she  had  listened  to  this  after-church  discourse  of  her 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE,  123 

Drother  not  only  with  complacency,  but  with  a  full  and  unequivocal 
assent  to  all  he  had  proposed.     So   she  would  have  listened,  so 
assented  to  any  thing,  no  matter  what,  proposed  by  him ;  and  all 
things  considered,  it  was  not  surprising.    Even  as  continued  attrition 
wears  the   angles  of  the  flint  until  it  is  moulded  into  the  perfect 
pebble,  so  had  her  nature  been  moulded  by  her  brother.     He  had 
bullied  her  in  her  childhood  and  in  her  womanhood,  except  when 
there  was  a  purpose  in  view  which  he  could  better  accomplish  by 
fawning;    and  her  natural  good  disposition,  so  indurated  by  these 
opposed  modes  of  treatment,  had  become  as  insensible  to  finer  emo- 
tions as  her  heart  was  callous  to  its  own  impulses.     There  was  one 
element  in  his  composition  which  at  all  times  had  cast  a  gloss  upon 
his  actions.     It  was  his  piety !     God  help  us !  that  any  one  should 
allude  to  that  but  with  reverence  and  love !     Nor  do  I  here  speak 
of  it  but  as  a  profession,  an  art,  or  specious  showing  forth  of  some- 
thing that  is  not  real,  hut  jirofessed,  in  order  to  accomplish  other  ends. 
What  profited  her  own  experience,  when  Harriet  Lasciver  was  so  far 
imposed  upon  as  to  believe  her  brother's  professions  sincere  ?     What 
though  all  his  life  he  had  been  a  crooked  contriver  and  plotter, 
malicious  in  his  enmity,  and  false  in  his  friendship ;  and  she  knew  it  ? 
Yet,  as  she  could  not  reconcile  it  with  his  affected  sanctity,  she  could 
not  believe  it.    That  wonderful  power  which  men  seldom,  and  women 
never  analyze  —  hypocrisy,  held  her  entangled  in  its  meshes,  and  she 
was  his  instrument    to  be  guided  as  he  chose.     Every  noble  trait 
true  woman  possesses  —  pity,  tenderness,  love,  and  high  honor  — 
were  commanded  by  an  influence  she  could  not  resist.     Her  reason, 
nay,  her  feelings  were  dormant,  but  her  foith  slept  securely  upon 
her  brother's  religion ! 

In  this  instance  there  was  another  consideration  —  a  minor  one,  it 
is  true,  but  in  justice  to  the  widow,  it  must  be  added.  She  really 
admired  the  Captain ;  but  that  makes  no  great  difference.  A  widow 
must  love  some  body.  Those  delicate  tendrils  of  affection  which  put 
forth,  with  the  experiences  of  the  young  wife  die  not  in  the  widow, 
but  survive,  and  must  have  some  support.  Even  if  the  object  be  un- 
worthy or  unsightly,  as  it  happens  sometimes,  still  will  they  bind, 
and  bloom,  and  cling,  and  blossom  around  it,  like  honey-suckles 
around  a  post. 


124  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

The  windows  at  the  Oakery  are  open,  and  the  warm  air  of  a  Sun 
day  summer  evening  pours  in,  as  Augusta  pours  out  the  tea.  The 
Captain  burns  his  mouth  with  the  first  cup,  turns  the  tea  into  the  sau- 
cer, blows  it  to  cool  it,  drinks  it  off  hastily,  takes  a  snap  at  the  thin, 
white  slicfc  of  bread  on  his  plate,  takes  another  snap  at  a  radish  some- 
what overcharged  with  salt,  wipes  his  mouth,  goes  to  the  window  and 
calls  out  "Jim!"  Jim  appears  at  the  stable-door  with  a  wisp  of 
straw  and  a  curry-comb.  "  Put  in  the  bosses !"  Jim  telegraphs  with 
the  curry-comb,  "All  right.  Sir!"  Augusta  stares  at  Adolphus,  and 
Adolphus  brushes  the  metaphysical  films  from  his  eyes,  and,  for  once, 
seems  wide  awake.  The  Captain  takes  his  seat  and  a  fresh  snap  at 
the  bread.  Augusta  looks  at  him  steadily.  "  Why,  brother,  where 
are  you  going  with  the  horses  on  Sunday  afternoon  ?"  The  Captain 
squints  at  the  bread,  and  answers,  "  To  Mewker's."  "  Mewker's !" 
repeats  Augusta ;  "  Mewker's !  why,  brother,  you  're  crazy ;  they 
never  receive  company  on  Sunday.  You  know  how  strictly  pious 
Mr.  Mewker  is,  and  he  would  look  at  you  with  amazement.  To  see 
you  riding,  too !  why  —  I  —  never !" 

The  Captain,  however,  said  nothing,  but  waited,  with  some  impa- 
tience, until  Spec  and  Shat  turned  out  with  the  carriage  from  the  sta- 
ble. Then  he  took  the  ribbons,  stopped,  threw  them  down,  went  up 
into  the  tower,  came  back  with  a  clean  shirt  on,  climbed  into  the  scat, 
and  drove  off. 

"  lie  '11  come  back  from  there  in  a  hurry,  I  guess,"  said  Augusta 
to  the  wondering  Adolphus. 

But  the  Captain  did  not  return  until  eleven  that  night,  and  then 
somewhat  elevated  with  wine.  "  Augushta,"  said  he,  as  the  procession 
formed  as  usual  on  the  stairs,  "that  Mucous  'sha  clever  feller,  heesha 
clever  fuller,  heesha  dev'lish  clever  feller;  heesh  fond  of  talking  on 
church  matters,  and  sho  'mi.  His  shistcr,  sheesha  another  clever  ful- 
ler, she  's  a  chump !  I  asked  'cm  to  come  to-morrow  to  tea,  and 
shaid  they  would." 

"  Why,  brother,  to-morrow  is  Monday,  washing-day  !"  replied  the 
astonished  spinster. 

"  Tha  's  a  fack,  Gushta,  fack,"  answered  the  Captain,  as  he  took 
the  candle  from  his  sister  at  the  tower-door ;  "  but,  was-h  or  no  wash. 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE.  125 

musht  come.      When   I   ask  'em   to   come,  musht  come.      Good- 
night !" 

The  bolts  are  closed  on  the  several  doors,  scarp  and  counterscarp, 
ditch  and  glacis  are  wrapped  in  slumber ;  but  the  Captain  lies  wide 
awake,  looking  through  the  slits  in  the  tower  casement  at  the  Great 
Bear  in  the  sky,  and  thinking  rapturously  of  the  lovely  Lasciver. 

Never  did  the  old  family  carriage  have  such  a  polishing  as  on  that 
Monday  morning.  Never  did  Jim  so  bestir  himself  with  the  harness 
as  on  that  day  under  the  eye  of  Belgrave.  The  Captain  neglects  to 
take  his  accustomed  ride  to  the  village  in  the  morning,  that  Spec 
and  Shat  may  be  in  condition  for  the  afternoon.  At  last  the  carriage 
rolls  up  the  road  from  the  Oakery,  with  Jim  on  the  box,  and  the  Cap- 
tain retires  to  dress  for  company.  In  due  course  the  carriage  returns 
with  Spec  and  Shat  somewhat  blown  with  an  over-load;  for  all  the 
young  Mewkers  are  piled  up  inside,  on  the  laps  of  Mrs.  Mewker  and 
the  lovely  Lasciver.  Then  Augusta  hurries  into  thfe  kitchen  to  tell 
Hannah,  the  help,  to  cut  more  bread  for  the  brats,  and  Adolphus  is  hur- 
ried out  into  the  garden  to  pull  more  radishes,  "and  the  young  Mew- 
kor  tribe  get  into  his  little  library,  and  revel  in  his  choice  books,  and 
quarrel  over  them,  and  scatter  some  leaves  and  covers  on  the  floor  as 
trophies  of  the  fight..  Then  the  tea  is  brought  on,  and  the  lovely  Las- 
civer tries  in  vain  to  soften  the  asperity  of  Augusta ;  and  then  Mew- 
ker takes  her  in  hand,  and  does  succeed,  and  in  a  remarkable  degree, 
too.  Meanwhile  the  ciphers  of  the  party,  Mrs.  Mewker  and  Adol- 
phus, drink  and  eat  in  silence.  Then  they  adjourn  to  the  porch,  and 
Mewker  sits  beside  Augusta,  and  entertains  her  with  an  account  of 
the  missions  in  Surinam,  to  which  she  turns  an  attentive  ear.  Then 
Mrs.  Mewker  says  it  is  time  to  go,  "  on  account  of  the  children,"  at 
which  Mewker  darts  a  petrifying  look  at  her,  and  turns  with  a  smile 
to  Augusta,  who,  in  the  honesty  of  her  heart,  says  "  she,  too,  thinks  it 
is  best  for  the  young  ones  to  go  to  bed  early."  Then  Jim  is  sum- 
moned from  the  stable,  and  Spec  and  Shat ;  and  the  Mewkers  take 
leave,  and  whirl  along  the  road  again  toward  home. 

It  was  long  before  the  horses  returned,  for  Jim  drove  back  slowly. 
There  was  not  a  tenderer  heart  in  the  world  than  the  one  which  beat 
in  the  bosom  of  that  small  old  boy  of  sixty.     He  sat  perched  upon 


126  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

the  box,  calling  out,  "  Gently,  soho !"  to  Spec  and  Shat,  when  they 
advanced  beyond  a  walk,  and  held  a  talk  with  himself  in  this  wise : 
"  I  do  n't  want  to  carry  that  old  carcase  agin.  He  gits  in  and  praises 
up  the  Cap'n  so  as  /  can  hear  him,  and  then  asks  me  if  I  wo  n't  lay 
the  whip  on  the  bosses.  Says  I, '  Mr.  Mewker,  them  bosses  has  been 
druv.'  Says  he,  '  Yes,  James,  but  you  can  give  'em  a  good  rubbin' 
down  when  you  get  to  hum,  and  that  will  fetch  'em  all  right.'  Now, 
I  want  to  know  if  you  take  a  man,  and  lay  a  whip  onto  him,  and 
make  him  travel  till  he  's  sore,  whether  rubbin'  down  is  a-goin'  to 
make  him  all  right  1  No,  Sir.  Then  he  calls  me  James.  I  do  n't 
want  no  man  to  call  me  James ;  my  name  's  Jim.  There  was  old 
^Midgely ;  he  called  me  James ;  did  n't  he  coax  out  of  me  all  I  'd 
saved  up  for  more  'n  twenty  years,  and  then  busted?  There  was 
Deacon  Cotton ;  did  n't  he  come  in  over  the  Captain  with  that  pork  ? 
lie  called  me  James,  too.  And  there  was  that  psalm-singin'  peddler 
that  got  Miss  Augusty  to  lend  him  the  colt ;  he  called  me  James.  Did 
he  bring  the  colt  back?  No,  Sir;  at  least  not  yit,  and  it 's  more  'n 
three  years  ago.  When  a  man  calls  me  James,  I  take  my  eye  and 
places  it  onto  him.  I  hearn  him  when  he  tells  Miss  Mewker  not  to 
give  beggars  nothin'.  /  hearn  him.  He  sez  they  may  be  impostors ! 
Well,  'spose  they  be  1  When  a  feller-creatur'  gits  so  low  as  to  beg, 
have  n't  they  got  low  enough  1  Aint  they  ragged,  dirty,  despised  ? 
Do  n't  they  run  a  chance  of  starvin',  impostors  or  not,  if  every 
body  drives  'em  off?  And  what  great  is  it  if  they  do  got  a-head  of 
you,  for  a  crumb  or  a  cent  ?  When  I  see  a  feller-creatur'  in  rags, 
beggin',  I  say  human  natur'  has  got  low  enough ;  it 's  in  rags !  it 
begs !  it 's  'way  down,  and  it  do  n't  make  much  difference  if  it  's 
actin'  or  not.  Them  aint  impostors  that  will  do  much  harm.  Them 
aint  impostors  like  old  Midgely,  and  Deacon  Ci^tton,  and  that  psalm- 
singin'  peddler  that  borrowed  the  colt ;  at  least  they  do  n't  cut  it  so 
fat.  But  'spose  they  do  n't  happin'  to  be  impostors,  artcr  all  ? 
Whar  's  that  account  to  be  squared  ?  I  guess  I  'd  raythor  be  the  beg- 
gar than  the  other  man  when  that  account  is  squared.  I  guess  when 
that  account  is  squared,  it  will  kind  a-look  as  if  the  impostor  was  n't 
the  one  that  asked  for  the  stale  bread,  but  the  one  that  would  n't  give 
it.    Seems  as  if  I  've  heard  'cm  tell  about  a  similar  case  somewhere." 


CAPTAIN    EELGRAVE.  12'! 

A  good  rubbing  down,  indeed,  for  Spec  and  Shat  that  niglit,  and  a 
well-filled  manger,  too.  When  Jim  picked  up  his  stable-lantern,  he 
gave  each  horse  a  pat  on  the  head  and  a  parting  hug,  and  then  backed 
out,  with  his  eyes  still  on  them,  "  Spec !"  said  he  at  the  door.  Spec 
gave  a  whinny  in  reply.  "  Shat !"  Shat  responded  also.  "  Good- 
night, old  boys !  Old  Jim  aint  a-goin'  to  lay  no  whip  onto  you.  If 
old  Jim  wants  to  lay  a  whip  onto  something,  it  wo  n't  be  onto  you, 
that 's  been  spavined  and  had  the  bots,  and  he  's  cured  'em,  and  they 
know  it,  hey!  No,  Sir.  His  'tipathy  works  outside  into  another 
quarter.  Is  my  name  James  ?  Well,  it  aint.  It 's  Jim,  is  n't  it  1 
Yes,  Sir!" 

Old  Jim's  remarks  being  ended,  and  the  stable-door  locked, 
nothing  remained  for  him  to  do  but  to  form  the  glacis  before  the 
Belgrave  citadel. 

From  that  night,  however,  the  halcyon  days  of  Spec  and  Shat 
were  at  an  end.  The  Mewkers  loved  to  ride,  but  they  had  no  horses : 
the  only  living  thing  standing  upon  four  legs  belonging  to  Mr.  Mcw- 
ker  was  an  ugly,  half-starved,  cross-grained,  suspicious-looking  dog, 
that  had  the  mange  and  a  bad  reputation.  Of  course,  the  Captain's 
horses  were  at  their  service,  for  rides  to  the  beach,  for  pic-nics  in  the 
woods,  for  shopping  in  the  village,  or,  perchance,  to  take  Mr.  Mewker 
to  some  distant  church-meeting.  And  not  only  were  the  horses 
absent  at  unusual  times ;  there  seemed  to  be  a  growing  fondness  in 
the  Captain  for  late  hours.  The  old-style  regularity  of  the  Oakery, 
the  time-honored  habits  of  early  hours  to  bed,  the  usual  procession  up 
the  stairs,  formal  but  cheerful,  were,  in  some  measure,  broken  into ; 
not  but  what  these  were  observed  as  formerly ;  not  but  what  every 
member  of  the  family  waited  and  watched  until  the  Captain  returned, 
no  matter  how  late ;  but  that  sympathetic  feeling  which  all  had  felt 
when  the  hour  of  bed-time  came,  had  ceased  to  be,  and  in  its  place 
was  the  dreary  languor,  the  tiresome,  tedious  feeling  that  those  expe- 
rience who  sit  up  and  wait  and  wait,  for  an  absent  one,  waiting  and 
asking,  "  Why  tarry  the  wheels  of  his  chariot  V  There  was  an  increas- 
ing presentiment,  a  gloomy  foreshadowing  of  evil,  in  Miss  Augusta's 
mind  at  these  doings  of  the  Captain ;  and  this  feeling  was  heightened 
by  something,  trifling  in  itself,  yet  still  mysterious  and  unaccountable. 


128  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Some  body,  almost  every  day,  cut  off  a  tolerably  large  piece  from  the 
beef  or  mutton,  or  whatever  kind  of  meat  there  chanced  to  be  in  the 
cellar.  And  uo  body  knew  any  thing  about  it.  Hannah  was  fidelity 
itself;  Jim  was  beyond  suspicion  ;  Adulphus  never  went  into  the  cel- 
lar, scarcely  out  cf  the  library,  in  fact.  The  Captain  !  could  it  be  her 
brother?  Miss  Augusta  watched.  She  saw  him  do  it.  She  saw  him 
covertly  draw  his  jack-knife  from  his  pocket,  and  purloin  a  piece  of 
l)eautiful  rump-steak,  then  wrap  it  up  in  j^apcr,  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  walk  off  whistling,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  "  Tlie  widow  is 
at  the  bottom  of  this !"  was  the  thought  that  flashed  through  the  mind 
of  Augusta.  She  was  indirectly  correct.  The  widow  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  theft,  and  I  will  tell  you  how.  I  have  mentioned  a  large, 
mangy  dog,  of  disreputable  character,  Mr.  Mewker's  property,  and 
"  Bose"  by  name.  Whenever  the  Captain  drove  up  the  path  to  the 
house  of  his  friend,  there,  beside  the  step  of  the  wagon,  from  the  time 
it  passed  the  gate  until  it  reached  the  porch,  was  this  dog,  with  a  tail 
short  as  pie-crust,  that  never  wagged ;  thick,  wicked  eyes,  and  a  face 
that  did  not  suggest  fidelity  and  sagacity,  but  treachery  and  rapine, 
dead  sheep,  and  larceny  great  or  small.  And  although  the  Captain 
was  a  stout,  active,  well-framed  man,  with  a  rosy  cheek,  a  bright  eye, 
and  a  sprightly  head  of  hair,  yet  he  was  afraid  of  that  dog.  And 
therefore,  the  Captain,  to  conciliate  Bose,  brought  him  every  day 
some  choice  morsel  from  his  own  kitchen ;  and  as  he  did  not  dare 
to  tell  Augusta,  the  same  was  abstracted  in  the  manner  already 
described. 

Here  I  must  mention  a  peculiarity  in  Captain  Belgrave's  charac- 
ter. He  never  saw  a  dog  without  thinking  of  hydrophobia ;  he  never 
bathed  on  the  beautiful  beach  in  the  rear  of  his  house  without  imagin- 
ing every  chip  in  the  Avater,  or  ri]>ple  on  the  wave,  to  be  the  dorsal 
fin  of  some  voracious  shark.  When  he  drove  home  at  night,  it  was 
with  fear  and  trembling,  for  an  assassin  might  be  lurking  in  the 
bushes;  and  if  he  passed  a  sick  neighbor,  he  walked  off  with  small- 
pox, measles,  typhoid,  and  whooping-cough  trundling  at  his  hoels.  In 
a  word,  he  was  the  most  consummate  co\yard  in  Little-Crampton.  It 
was  f^r  this  reason  he  had  built  and  slept  in  the  tower ;  and  what  with 
reading  of  pirates,  buccaneers.  Captain  Kidd,  and  Black  Beard,  his 


CAPTAIN   BELGRAVB.  129 

mind  was  so  infected  that  no  sleeping-place  seemed  secure  and  safe, 
but  his  own  turret  and  trap-door,  scarp,  counterscarp,  ditch,  and  gla- 
cis, through  which  all  invaders  had  to  pass  before  they  encountered 
him  with  his  tremendous  horse-pistol. 

It  was  not  the  discovery  of  the  theft  alone  that  had  opened  the 
eyes  of  Augusta  in  regard  to  her  brother's  motions.  Although  he  had 
told  her,  again  and  again,  that  he  merely  went  to  Mewkcrs  to  talk 
over  church  matters,  yet  she  knew  intuitively,  as  every  woman  would, 
that  a  widow  so  lovely  as  Harriet  Lasciver  could  not  but  have  great 
attractions  for  such  an  old  bachelor  as  her  brother.  In  fact,  she 
knew,  if  the  widow,  as  the  phrase  is,  "  set  her  cap  for  him,"  the  Cap- 
tain was  a  lost  man.  But  to  whom  could  she  apply  for  counsel  and 
assistance  1  Adolphus  ?  Adolphus  had  no  more  sense  than  a  kitten. 
Haimah?  There  was  something  of  the  grand  old  spinster — spirit 
about  Augusta  that  would  not  bend  to  the  level  of  Hannah,  the  help. 
Jim  ?  She  would  go  to  Jim.  She  would  see  that  small  boy  of  sixty, 
and  ask  his  advice.  And  she  did.  She  walked  over  to  the  stable 
in  the  evening,  while  her  brother  was  making  his  toilet  for  the  cus- 
tomary visit  to  the  Mewkery,  and,  without  beating  around  the  bush 
at  all,  reached  the  point  at  once.  "Jim,"  said  she,  "the  Captain  is 
getting  too  thick  with  the  Mewkers,  and  we  must  put  a  stop  to  it. 
How  is  that  to  be  done  V 

Jim  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  held  up  his  forefinger.  "  I 
know  one  way  to  stop  him  a-goin'  there ;  and,  if  you  say  so.  Miss 
Augusta,  then  old  Jim  is  the  boy  to  do  it." 

Augusta  assented  in  a  grand,  old,  towering  nod.  Jim,  with  a  mere 
motion  of  his  forefinger,  seemed  to  reiterate,  "  If  you  say  so,  I  'II 
do  it." 

"Yes." 

"Then,  by  Golly!"  responded  Jim  joyfully,  "arter  this  night 
he  '11  never  go  there  ag'in." 

Augusta  walked  toward  the  house  with  a  smile,  and  Jim  proceeded 
to  embellish  Shatter. 

By-and-by  the  Captain  drove  off  in  the  wagon,  and  old  Jim 
busied  himself  with  Spectator,  fitting  a  mouldy  saddle  on  his  back, 
and  getting  him  ready  for  action. 


130  THE    ATLANTIC    SOl'A'E.VIR. 

There  was  a  thin  cloud,  like  lace,  over  the  moon  that  night;  just 
enough  to  make  objects  painfully  distinct,  as  Captain  Bclgrave  turned 
out  from  Mewker's  gate,  and  took  the  high  road  toward  home.  He 
jogged  along,  however,  quite  comfortably,  and  had  just  reached  the 
end  of  Mewker's  fence,  when  he  saw  a  figure  on  horseback,  emerging 
from  the  little  lane  that  ran  down  behind  the  garden  to  the  pond  at 
the  back  of  the  house.  The  apparition  had  a  sort  of  red  cape  around 
its  shoulders;  a  soldier-cap,  with  a  tall  plume,  (very  like  the  one  the 
Captain  used  to  wear  on  parade,)  was  upon  its  head ;  in  its  hand  was 
a  long,  formidable-looking  staff;  and  the  horse  of  the  spectre  was 
enveloped  in  a  white  saddle-cloth,  that  hung  down  almost  to  the 
ground.  What  was  remarkable,  Old  Shatter,  as  if  possessed  with  the 
devil,  actually  drew  out  of  the  road  toward  the  stranger,  and  gave  a 
whinny,  which  was  instantly  responded  to  in  the  most  frightful  tones 
by  the  horse  of  the  spectre.  Almost  paralyzed,  the  Captain  suffered 
the  apparition  to  approach  him.  What  a  face  it  had  !  Long  masses 
of  hair,  like  tow,  waved  around  features  that  seemed  to  have  neither 
shape  nor  color.  Its  face  seemed  like  a  face  of  brown  paper,  so  form- 
less and  flat  was  it,  with  great  hideous  eyes  and  a  mouth  of  intolera- 
ble width.  As  it  approached,  the  figure  seemed  to  have  a  convul- 
sion—  it  rolled  so  in  the  saddle;  but,  recovering,  it  drew  up  beside 
the  shaft,  and,  whirling  its  long  staff,  brought  such  a  whack  upon  Shat- 
ter's flank,  that  the  old  horse  almost  jumped  out  of  his  harness. 
Away  went  the  wagon  and  the  Captain,  and  away  went  the  spectre 
close  behind ;  fences,  trees,  bushes,  dust,  whirled  in  and  out  of  sight ; 
bridges,  sedges,  trout-brooks,  mills,  willows,  copses,  plains,  in  moon- 
light and  shadow,  rolled  on  and  on ;  but  not  an  inch  was  lost  or  won ; 
there,  behind  the  wagon,  was  the  goblin  with  his  long  plume  bending, 
and  waving,  and  dancing,  and  his  staff  whirling  with  terrible  menaces. 
On,  and  on,  and  on,  and  ever  and  anon  the  goblin  steed  gave  one  of 
those  frightful  Mhinnies  that  seemed  to  tear  the  very  air  with  its  disson- 
ance. On,  and  on,  and  on  !  The  Captain  drove  with  his  head  turned 
back  over  his  shoulder,  but  Shat  knew  the  road.  On,  and  on,  and  on  ! 
A  thought  flashes  like  inspiration  through  the  mind  of  the  Captain, 
"  The  horse-pistol !"  It  is  under  the  cushions.  lie  seizes  it  nervously, 
cocks  it,  and  —  bang !  goes  the  plume  of  the  goblin.    "  By  gosh !"  said 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE.  131 

a  voice  under  the  soldier-cap,  "  I  did  n't  cal'late  on  that ;"  and  then, 
"  I  vum  ef  old  Shat  haint  run  away  !"  Sure  enough,  Shatto  has  run 
away ;  the  wagon  is  out  of  sight  in  a  turn  of  the  road ;  the  next 
instant,  it  brings  up  against  a  post ;  off  goes  Shat,  with  shafts  and 
disl3;;ated  fore- wheels;  and  old  Jim  soon  after  finds  the  remains  of 
the  wagon,  and  the  senseless  body  of  his  master,  in  a  ditch,  under 
the  moon,  and  a  willow.  To  take  the  red  blanket  from  his  shoulders, 
which  he  had  worn  like  a  Mexican  poncho  by  putting  his  head  through 
a  hole  in  the  middle,  is  done  in  an  instant ;  and  then,  with  big  tears 
rolling  down  his  cheeks,  the  old  boy  brings  water  from  a  spring,  in 
the  crown  of  the  soldier-cap,  to  bathe  the  face  of  the  Captain.  The 
report  of  the  pistol  has  alarmed  a  neighbor ;  and  the  two,  with  the 
assistance  of  the  hind-wheels  and  the  body  of  the  wagon,  carry  poor 
Belgrave  through  the  moon-lit  streets  of  Little-Crampton,  to  the 
Oakery. 

When  the  Captain  opened  his  eye,  (for  the  other  was  under  the 
tuition  of  a  large  patch  of  brown  paper,  steeped  in  vinegar,)  he  found 
himself  safe  at  home,  surrounded  and  fortified,  as  usual,  by  Augusta, 
Adolphus,  Hannah,  the  help,  and  Jim,  in  picturesque  attitudes.  How 
he  came  there,  was  a  mystery.  Stay;  he  begins  to  take  up  the 
thread :  Mewkers,  fence,  the  figure,  the  race  for  life,  and  the  pistol ! 
What  else  ?  Nothing  —  blank  —  oblivion.  So  he  falls  into  a  tranquil 
state  of  comfort,  and  feels  that  he  does  not  care  about  it.  No  getting 
up  that  steep  ladder  to-night !  Never  mind.  It  is  a  labor  to  think, 
so  he  relapses  into  thoughtlessness,  and  finally  falls  asleep.  There 
was  a  stranger  in  the  room  behind  the  bed's  head,  a  tall,  astringent- 
looking  man.  Dr.  Butternuts,  by  whom  the  Captain  had  been  let 
blood.  If  Belgrave  had  seen  him,  he  would  have  fainted.  "  No  inju- 
ries of  any  consequence,"  says  the  doctor,  departing  and  waving  his 
brown  hand.  "  Terribly  skart,  though,"  Augusta  responds  in  a  whis- 
per. "  Yes,  he  will  get  over  that ;  to-morrow  he  will  be  better ;" 
and  the  doctor  waves  himself  out.  Adolphus  retires,  and  then  Han- 
nah, the  help;  but  Augusta  and  Jim  watch  by  the  bedside  until 
morning.  The  Captain,  every  now  and  then,  among  the  snowy  sheets 
and  coverlet,  turns  up  a  side  of  face  that  looks  like  a  large,  purple 
egg-plant,  at  which  Jim  sighs  heavily ;  but  Augusta  whispers  sooth 


132  THE    ATLANTIC    SOITVEKIR. 

ingly,  "  Never  mind,  Jim,  it  's  for  his  good ;  I  'm  glad  you  skart 
him  ;  you  skart  him  a  Icctle  too  much  this  time,  that 's  all ;  next  time 
you  '11  be  more  careful,  wo  n"t  you,  and  not  skcar  him  so  bad  V' 

That  Captain  Belgrave  had  been  thrown  from  his  wagon,  and 
badly  hurt,  was  known  all  over  Little-C'rampton,  next  morning. 
Some  said  he  had  been  shot  at  by  a  highwayman ;  some,  he  had  shot 
at  a  highwayman.  The  story  took  a  hundred  shapes,  and  finally  was 
rolled  up  at  the  door  of  the  Rev.  Melchior  Spat,  who  at  once  took 
his  wagon,  and  drove  off  to  the  Mcwkery.  There  the  rumor  was 
unfolded  to  Mr.  Mewker,  who,  enjoying  it  immensely,  made  so  many 
funny  remarks  thereon,  that  the  Rev.  Melchior  Spat  was  convulsed 
with  laughter,  and  then  the  two  drove  down  to  the  Oakery  to  condole 
with  the  sufTorer.  On  the  way  there,  the  Rev.  ]Melchior  yas  so  won- 
derfully facetious,  that  Mewker,  who  never  enjoyed  any  person's 
jokes  but  his  own,  was  actually  stimulated  into  mirth,  and  had  it  not 
been  for  happily  catching  a  distant  sight  of  the  tower,  would  have  so 
forgotten  himself  as  to  drive  up  to  the  door  with  a  pleasant  expres- 
sion of  countenance.  As  it  was,  thoy  both  entered  grave  as  owls,  and 
inquired,  in  faint  and  broken  voices,  how  the  Captain  was,  and  whe- 
ther he  was  able  to  see  friends.  Augusta,  who  received  them,  led 
them  up  to  the  room,  where  the  Captain,  with  his  face  like  the  globe 
in  the  equinox,  sitting  propped  up  in  bed,  shook  both  feebly  by  the 
hands,  and  then  the  Rev.  Melchior  proposed  prayer,  to  which  Mew- 
ker promptly  responded  by  dropping  on  his  knees,  and  burying  his 
face  in  the  bottom  of  an  easy  chair.  This  was  a  signal  for  Adolphus 
to  do  likewise ;  and  the  Captain,  not  to  be  behind,  struggling  up  into  a 
sitting  posture,  leaned  forward  in  the  middle  of  the  coverlet,  with  his 
toes  and  the  end  of  his  shirt  deployed  upon  the  pillows.  Then  the 
Rev.  Melchior,  in  a  crying  voice,  proceeded  according  to  the  homeo- 
pathic practice  —  that  is,  making  it  short  and  sweet  as  possible  — 
touching  upon  the  excellent  qualities  of  the  sufleror,  the  distress  of 
his  beloved  friends,  and  especially  of  the  anxiety  which  would  l)e 
awakened  in  the  bosom  of  one  now  absent,  "  whose  heart  was  only  the 
heart  of  a  woman,  a  heart  not  strong  and  able  to  bear  up  against 
calamity,  but  weak,  and  fragile,  and  loving,  and  pitiful,  and  tender; 
a  heart  that  was  so  weak,  and  loving,  and  pitiful,  and  tender,  and 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE.  133 

fragile,  that  it  could  not  bear  up  against  calamity  ;  no,  it  could  not ; 
no,  it  could  not ;  it  was  weak,  it  was  pitiful,  it  was  loving,  it  was  ten- 
der, it  was  fragile  like  a  flower,  and  against  calamity  it  could  not 
bear  up." 

So  great  was  the  effect  of  the  Eev.  Melchior  Spat's  eloquence,  that 
the  Captain  fairly  cried,  so  as  to  leave  a  round  wet  spot  in  the  middle 
of  the  coverlet,  and  Mr.  Mewker  wiped  his  eyes  frequently  with  his 
handkerchief,  as  he  rose  from  the  chair.  And  although  the  voice  of 
the  Reverend  Melchior  had  been  heard  distinctly,  word  for  word,  by 
Jim,  in  the  far-off  stable,  yet  it  sank  to  the  fiintest  whisper  when  he 
proceeded  to  inquire  of  the  Captain  how  he  felt,  and  what  was  this 
dreadful  story.  And  then  the  Captain,  in  a  voice  still  fainter,  told 
how  he  was  attacked  by  a  man  of  immense  size,  mounted  on  a  horse 
of  propoi'tionate  dimensions,  and  how  he  had  defended  himself,  and 
did  battle  bravely  until,  in  the  fight,  "  Shatto  got  skeared,  and  overset 
the  wagon,  and  then  the  man  got  onto  him,  and  pounded  the  life  out 
of  him,  while  he  was  entangled  with  reins."  Then  Mr.  Mewker  and 
the  Rev.  Mr,  Spat  took  leave  with  sorrowful  faces,  and  as  they  drove 
home  again,  renewed  the  jocularity  which  had  been  interrupted  some- 
what by  the  visit  to  the  Oakery. 

To  say  that  Mr,  Mewker  neglected  his  friend,  the  Captain,  during 
his  misfortunes,  would  be  doing  a  great  injustice  to  that  excellent 
man.  Every  day  he  was  at  the  Oakery,  to  inquire  after  his  health ; 
and  rarely  did  he  come  without  some  little  present,  a  pot  of  sweet- 
meats, a  bouquet,  or  something  of  the  kind,  from  the  lovely  Lasciver. 
How  good  it  was  of  him  to  buy  jelly  at  two  shillings  a  pound  at  the 
store,  and  bring  it  to  the  Captain,  saying,  "  This  little  offering  is  from 
Harriet,  who  thought  some  delicacy  of  the  kind  would  be  good  for 
you."  Was  it  not  disinterested  ?  Hiding  his  own  modest  virtues  in 
a  pot  of  jelly,  and  presenting  it  in  the  name  of  another !  The  truth 
is,  Mewker's  superior  tactics  were  too  profound  for  Augusta  to  con- 
tend against ;  she  felt,  as  it  were,  the  sand  sliding  from  under  her 
feet.  Nor  was  Mewker  without  a  powerful  auxiliary  in  the  Reverend 
Melchior  Spat,  who,  by  his  prerogative,  had  free  access  to  the  house 
at  all  times,  and  made  the  most  of  it,  too.  Skillfully  turning  to  com- 
mon topics  when  Augusta  was  present,  and  as  skillfully  returning  tc 


134  THK    ATLAKTIC    SOrV'ENIR. 

the  old  subject  when  she  retired,  he  animated  the  Captain  with  such 
desire  fur  the  lovely  widow,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  his  black  eye,  he 
would  assuredly  have  gone  olT  and  proposed  on  the  spot.  This  fLcl- 
ing,  however,  subsided  when  the  Rev.  Melchior  was  gone ;  the  Cap- 
tain did  not  think  of  marrying ;  he  was  a  true  old  bachelor,  contented 
with  his  lot,  and  not  disposed  to  change  it  even  for  a  better ;  beside, 
he  was  timid. 

At  last  our  hero  was  able  once  more  to  go  about,  and  Jim  drove 
him  down  slowly  to  the  Mewkery.  Such  a  noise  as  Bosc  made  when 
he  saw  the  carriage  approaching !  But  there  was  no  present  from  the 
hand  of  his  friend  this  time ;  so  Bose  contented  himself  with  growling 
and  snapping  angrily  at  his  own  tail,  which  was  not  longer  than  half  a 
cucumber.  What  a  blush  spread  over  the  face  of  the  Captain  when^ 
he  saw  the  widow,  all  dimples  and  dimity,  advancing  to  meet  him  in 
the  familiar  back-parlor !  ITow  the  sweet  reuses  breathed  through  the 
shaded  blinds  as  he  breathed,  out  his  thanks  to  the  widow  for  many 
precious  favors  during  his  confinement.  They  were  alone ;  the  Cap- 
tain sat  beside  her  on  the  softi ;  one  of  her  round,  plump,  white,  dim- 
pled hands  was  not  far  from  him,  resting  upon  the  black  hair-cloth  of 
the  sofii  bottom.  He  looked  right  and  left ;  there  was  no  one  near ; 
so  he  took  the  hand  respectfully,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips,  intendipg  to 
replace  it,  of  course.  To  his  dismay,  she  uttered  a  tender  "  O !"  and 
leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  What  to  do,  he  did  not  know; 
but  he  put  his  arm  around  her  bewitching  -waist,  to  support  her.  Her 
eyes  were  closed,  and  the  long,  radiant  lashes  heightened,  by  contrast, 
the  delicious  color  that  bloomed  in  her  chocks.  The  Captain  looked 
right  and  left  again  •,  no  one  was  near ;  if  he  could  venture  to  kiss 
her!  He  had  never  kissed  a  pretty  woman  in  all  his  life!  The 
desire  to  do  so  increased;  it  seemed  to  grow  upon  him,  in  fact; 
drawn  toward  her  by  an  influence  he  could  not  resist,  he  leaned 
over  and  touched  those  beautiful  lips,  and  then  —  in  walked  Mr. 
Mewker. 

Had  Mewker  not  been  a  genius,  he  might  have  compromised 
every  thing  by  still  playing  the  humble,  deferential,  conscientious 
part ;  but  hypocrisy  on  a  low  key  was  not  his  cue  now ;  ho  know  his 
man  too  well  f  .r  that,  and  besides,  familiar  as  this  branch  of  art  had 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE,  136 

been,  there  was  another  still  more  natural  to  him ;  he  was  wonderful 
in  the  sycophant,  but  matchless  in  the  bully !  Those  little,  weak, 
bladdery  eyes  seemed  almost  to  distil  venom,  as  wrapping  his  knobby 
arms  in  a  knot,  he  strode  up  to  the  astonished  Belgrave,  and  asked  him 
"  how  he  dared  invade  the  privacy  of  his  house,  the  home  of  his  wife 
and  children,  and  the  sanctuary  of  his  sister  ?  How  he  dared  trespass 
upon  the  hospitality  that  had  been  extended  toward,  nay,  that  had 
been  lavished  upon  him  1  Was  not  the  respectability  of  the  Mewker 
family,  a  family  related  to  the  wealthy  Balgangles  of  Little-Cramp- 
ton,  and  connected  by  marriage  with  the  Shellbarques  of  Boston,  a 
sufficient  protection  against  his  nefarious  designs  ?  And  did  he  under- 
take, under  the  mask  of  friendship,"  and  Mewker  drew  up  his  fore- 
head into  a  complication  of  lines  like  an  indignant  web,  "  to  come, 
as  a  hypocrite,  a  member  of  the  church  (0  Mewker!)  with  the 
covert  intention  of  destroying  the  peace  and  happiness  of  his  only 
sister  ?" 

Belgrave  was  a  man  who  never  swore ;  but  on  this  occasion  he 
uttered  an  exclamation:  "My  grief!"  said  he,  "I  never  had  no  such 
idee." 

"  What,  then,  are  your  intentions  ?"  said  Mewker,  fiercely. 

"  T'  make  it  all  straight,"  replied  the  Captain. 

"How?" 

Belgrave  paused,  and  Mewker  shuffled  rapidly  to  and  fro,  mutter- 
ing to  himself     At  last  he  broke  out  again : 

"How,  I  say?" 

"  On  that  p'int  I  'm  codjitatin'." 

"Do  —  you  —  mean — "  said  Mewker,  with  a  remarkable  smile, 
placing  his  hand  calmly  on  the  Captain's  shoulder,  "to  —  trifle  — 
with  —  me?" 

"  No,"  replied  poor  Belgrave,  surrendering  up,  as  it  were,  what 
was  left  of  him ;  "  I  'm  ready  to  be  married,  if  that  will  make  it  all 
straight,  provided,"  he  added  with  natural  courtesy,  turning  to  the 
lovely  widow,  "  provided  this  lady  does  not  think  me  unworthy  of 
her." 

Mewker  drew  forth  a  tolerably  clean  handkerchief,  and  applied  it 
to  his  eyes:   a  white  handkerchief  held  to  the  eyes  of  a  figure  in 


136  TnK    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

threadbare  black  is  very  effective.  The  lovely  Lasciver  remained 
entirely  passive;  such  is  discijiline. 

Here,  at  last,  was  an  opportunity  to  beat  a  retreat.  The  Captain 
jpse,  and  shaking  Mewker's  unemployed  hand,  which,  he  said  after- 
ward, "  felt  like  a  bunch  of  radishes,"  left  the  room  without  so  much 
as  a  word  to  the  future  Mrs.  Belgrave.  So  soon  as  the  door  closed 
upon  him,  Mr.  Mewker  raised  his  eyes  from  the  handkerchief,  and 
smiled  sweetly  upon  his  sister.     The  thing  is  accomplished.  ' 

As  some  old  bear,  who  had  enjoyed  freedom  from  cubhood,  feels, 
at  the  bottom  of  a  pit  dug  by  the  skillful  hunter,  so  feels  Captain  Bel- 
grave,  as  he  rides  home  sorrowfully.  His  citadel,  after  all,  is  not  a 
protection.  Into  its  penetralia  a  subtle  spirit  has  at  last  found 
entrance.  The  air  grows  closer  and  heavier  around  him,  the  shadows 
broader,  the  bridges  less  secure,  the  trout-brooks  blacker  and  deeper. 
IIow  shall  he  break  the  matter  to  Augusta?  "No  hurry,  though; 
the  day  has  n't  been  app'inted  yit ;"  and  at  this  suggestion  the  clouds 
begin  to  break  and  lighten.  Then  he  sees  Mewker,  threadbare  and 
vindictive ;  his  sky  again  is  overcast,  but  filaments  of  light  stream 
through  as  he  conjures  up  the  image  of  the  lovely  widow,  the  dimpled 
hand,  the  closed  eyes,  the  long  radiate  lashes,  cheeks,  lips,  and  the 
temptation  which  had  so  unexpected  a  conclusion.  Home  at  last ; 
and,  with  some  complaint  of  fatigue,  the  Captain  retires  to  his  high 
tower  to  ruminate  over  the  past  and  the  future. 

Tlic  future !  yes,  the  future !  A  long  perspective  stretched  before 
his  eyes ;  and,  at  the  end  of  the  vista,  was  a  bride  in  white,  and  a 
wedding.  It  would  take  some  months  to  gradually  break  the  subject 
to  his  sister.  Then  temperately  and  moderately,  the  courtship  would 
go  on,  year  by  year,  waxing  by  degrees  to  the  end. 

Mr.  Mewker  altered  the  focus  of  Belgrave's  optics  next  morning, 
by  a  short  note,  in  which  he  himself  fixed  the  wedding-day  at  two  weeks 
from  the  Captain's  declarations  of  intentions.  This  intelligence  confined 
the  Captain  two  days  in  the  tower,  "codjitating,"  during  which  time 
every  body  in  Little-Crampton  was  informed  that  Widow  Lasciver 
and  he  were  engaged  to  be  married.  The  news  came  from  the  best 
authority  —  the  Rev.  Melchior  Sj)at.  On  the  evening  of  the  second 
dav.  a  pair  of  lead-colored  stockings,  a  fustian  petticoat,  a  drab  short- 


CAPTAIN   BELGRAVE.  137 

gown,  and  a  bright  bunch  of  keys,  descended  the  steep  step-ladder 
from  the  trap  in  the  tower,  and  walked  into  the  room  adjoining. 
Then  two  hands  commenced  wringing  themselves,  by  which  we  may 
understand  that  Augusta  was  in  great  tribulation.  Tlie  rumor,  rife  in 
Little-Crampton,  had  reached  her  ears,  and  her  brother  had  confirmed 
its  truth.  The  very  means  employed  to  keep  him  out  of  danger  had 
only  assisted  the  other  party  to  carry  him  off.  This  should  be  a 
warning  to  those  who  interfere  with  affairs  of  the  heart.  But  what 
was  her  own  future  ?  Certainly  her  reign  was  at  an  end ;  a  new 
queen-bee  was  to  take  possession  of  the  hive ;  and  then  —  what  then  1 
kings  and  kaisers,  even,  are  not  free  from  the  exquisite  anguish 
which,  in  that  hour,  oppressed  the  heart  of  Augusta  Belgrave.  It  was 
but  a  step ;  but  what  a  step  ?  from  mistress  to  menial,  from  ruler  to 
subordinate.  She  knelt  down  heavily  by  the  bedside,  and  there 
prayed ;  but  —  oh !  the  goodness  of  woman's  heart !  —  it  was  a  prayer, 
earnest,  smcere,  truthful,  and  humble ;  not  for  herself,  but  for  her 
brothers.  Then  her  heart  was  lightened  and  strengthened ;  and  as  she 
rose,  she  smiled  with  a  bitter  sweetness,  that,  considering  every  thing, 
was  beautiful. 

Great  preparations  now  in  Little-Crampton  for  the  wedding.  In- 
vitations were  out,  and  needles,  scissors,  flowers,  laces,  ribbons,  and 
mantua-makers  at  a  premium.  The  Captain  took  heart  of  grace,  and 
called  upon  his  lovely  bride,  but  always  managed  to  get  past  that 
lane  before  night-fall.  Hood  &  Wessup,  the  fashionable  tailors  of 
Little-Crampton,  were  suborned  to  lay  themselves  out  night  and  day 
•upon  his  wedding-suit.  He  had  set  his  heart  upon  having  Adolphus 
dressed  precisely  like  himself  on  the  occasion.  Two  brothers 
dressed  alike,  groom  and  groomsman,  look  remarkably  well  at  a 
wedding.  But  to  his  surprise,  Adolphus  refused  to  be  dressed,  and 
would  not  go  to  the  weddmg  —  ^^ positively. ''''  Neither  would  Augusta. 
Brother  and  sister  set  to  work  packing  up,  and  when  the  expected 
night  arrived  there  was  all  their  little  stock  in  two,  blue,  wooden 
trunks,  locked,  and  corded,  and '  ready  for  moving,  in  the  hall  of  the 
Oakery. 

It  was  a  gloomy  night  outside  and  in,  for  the  rain  had  been  falling 
all  day,  and  a  cold  rain-storm  in  summer  is  dreary  enough.     But 


138  THE    ATLANTIC    SOrV'ENIR. 

cheerful  bars  of  light  streamed  across  the  darkness  from  the  tower 
whidows,  lighting  up  a  green  strip  on  a  tree  here  and  there,  a  picket 
or  two  in  the  fence,  and  banding  with  an  illuminated  ribbon  the  side 
and  roof  of  the  dripping  barn.  The  Captain  was  making  his  toilet. 
White  ruffled  shirt,  with  a  black  mourning  pin  containing  a  lock  of 
his  mother's  hair ;  white  marseilles  waistcoat,  set  off  with  an  inner 
vest  of  blue  satin,  (suggested  by  Hood  &  Wessup ;)  trowsers  of 
bright  mustard  color,  fitting  as  tight  as  if  his  legs  had  been  melted 
and  poured  into  them ;  blue  coat,  cut  brass  buttons,  oid  of  handker- 
cher'  sticking  out  of  the  pocket  behind ;  black  silk  stockings  and 
pumps ;  red  check-silk  neck-cloth,  and  flying-jib  collars,  Down  he 
came,  and  there  sat  brother  and  sister  on  their  corded  trunks  in  the 
hall,  portentous  as  the  Egyptian  statues  that  overlook  the  Nile  from 
their  high  stone  chairs.  Not  a  word  was  said;  but  the  Captain 
opened  the  door  and  looked  out.     "Why,  it  rains  like  fury.     Jim!" 

Jim,  who  was  unseen  in  the  darkness,  and  yet  within  three  feet 
of  the  door,  answered  cheerily,  "  Aye,  aye.  Sir !'' 

"All  ready,  Jim  ?" 

"All  ready,  Capfin."  • 

"  Wait  till  I  get  my  cloak  ;"  and  as  the  Captain  wrapped  himself 
up,  his  sister  silently  and  carefully  assisted  him ;  not  on  account 
of  his  plumage,  but  to  keep  him  from  catching  cold. 

Off  goes  Shatter,  Jim,  and  the  Captain ;  off  through  the  whistling 
rain  and  the  darkness.  The  mud  whirled  up  from  the  wheels  and 
covered  the  cloak  of  the  bridegroom,  so  ho  told  Jim  "  to  drive  kecr- 
ful,  as  he  wanted  to  keep  nice,"  It  was  a  long  and  dreary  road,  but 
at  last  they  saw  the  bright  lights  from  Mewker's  windows,  and  with 
a  palpitating  heart  the  Captain  alighted  at  the  porch. 

Old  Bose,  who  had  been  scouring  the  grounds  and  barking  at 
every  guest,  started  up  with  a  fearful  growl,  but  the  Captain  threw 
off  his  travel-stained  cloak,  and  exhibited  himself  to  the  old  dog  in 
all  his  glory.  The  instant  Rose  recognized  his  friend  and  benefactor 
he  leaped  upon  him  with  such  a  multitude  of  caresses  that  the  white 
marseilles  vest  and  mustard-colored  trowsers  were  covered  with 
proofs  of  his  fidelity  and  attachment,  "Hey,  there!  hey!  do\>Ti, 
Bose !"  said  Mewker  at  the  door :  "  Why,  my  dear  brother  !" 


CAPTAIN    BELGRAVE.  139 

The  Captain,  with  great  gravity,  was  snapping  with  his  thumb  and 
finger  the  superfluous  mud  with  which  Bose  had  emljellishcd  his 
trowsers. 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  Mewker,  chuckling  and  scratching  his  chin. 
''  I  '11  get  you  a  brush.  No  hurry.  Time  enough  before  the  cere- 
mony." 

Tlie  Captain  walked  after  him  through  the  hall,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  parlors,  radiant  with  wax-lights,  and  crowded  with 
such  a  disjilay  of  company  as  was  rarely  seen  in  Little-Crampton. 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  Mewker,  still  chuckling,  as  he  opened  the 
door.  "  This  is  your  room ;"  and  he  winked,*^  and  gave  the  bride- 
groom such  a  nudge  with  his  knobby  elbow  as  almost  tumbled  him 
over  the  bed.  "Your  room  —  understand?  The  hridahchamhcr ! 
Wait  here,  now ;  wait  here  till  I  get  a  brush." 

The  Captain,  left  alone,  surveyed  the  apartment.  The  pillow- 
cases were  heavy  with  lace.  Little  tasteful  vases  filled  with  fl^owers, 
made  the  air  drunk  with  fragrance  ;  a  white,  worked  pin-cushion  was 
on  the  bureau,  before  an  oval  glass,  with  his  own  name  wrought  there- 
on in  pin's  heads.  The  asti'al  lamp  on  the  mantel  shed  a  subdued  and 
chastened  light  over  the  whole.  Long  windows  reached  to  the  floor, 
and  opened  on  the  piazza;  light  Venitian  blinds  wei-e  outside  the 
sashes,  without  other  fastenings  that  a  latch.  The  Captain  tried  the 
windows,  and  they  opened  with  a  touch  of  his  thumb  and  fore-finger. 
He  had  not  slept  in  so  insecure  a  place  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
Then  he  thought  of  the  phantom  horseman,  and  the  deep  pond  behind 
the  house.  He  shivered  a  little,  either  from  cold  or  timidity.  The 
window  was  partially  raised,  so  he  throws  it  up  softly,  touches  the 
latch ;  the  blinds  are  open ;  he  walks  out  on  the  piazza,  and  then 
covertly  steals  around  to  the  front  of  the  house,  where  he  finds 
Shatter  and  the  wagon,  with  old  Jim  peering  through  the  blinds  to 
see  the  wedding  come  oflT. 

"  Jim,"  he  says,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  take  me  hum.  I  aint  a-goin' 
to  sleep  in  such  a  room  as  that,  no  how." 

The  old  boy  quietly  unbuckled  the  hitching-strap,  and  when 
Mewker  got  back  with  the  brush.  Shatter  was  flying  through  the  mud 
toward  the  Oakery,  at  a  three-minute  gait.      Two  or  three  quick 


140  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVE.VIR. 

knocks  at  his  o^v^l  door,  and  it  is  opened  by  Augusta,  who,  with  hci 
brother,  had  kept  watch  and  wavd  on  their  corded  trunks.  The  Cap 
tain  took  the  candle  from  the  table,  without  saying  a  word,  ascended 
the  stairs,  passed  through  scarp,  counterscarp,  glacis,  and  ditch, 
mounted  his  ladder,  drew  it  up  after  him  bolted  the  trap  in  the 
floor,  and  cocked  his  pistol. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  let  'em  come  on !     Tliey  'aint  got  me  married 
this  time  any  how  !"' 


i|e  WitWm^-%x^  ai  latl  Jilbi^r  gafn. 


BY    OHASLES    O.   LELAND. 


nRBinKnii?nY  uhhi 


"  Wk  shall  drink  beer  In  heaven 
From  the  skulls  of  our  enemies." 

Eegner  Lodbroq. 

The  lightning  grew  pale, 
And  the  thunder  was  dumb, 
As  if  the  old  devil 
In  person  had  come, 
When  in  vengeance  and  tury 
The  Death-raven  black, 
The  Vikingir  Alvar 
Came  sweeping  the  track. 
"  Great  Odin,  thou  storm-god  1 
Crack  on  with  our  ship ! 
We  are  ofif  on  a  batter. 
Hurrah !  let  her  rip ! '" 
So  the  wild  pirate  shouted 
In  madness  and  scorn. 
While  down  went  the  liquor 
And  round  went  the  horn. 

So  all  hands,  as  you  see,  kept 
a  good  head  of  steam  on  I 

By  the  sea,  by  the  mouniain, 
On  Noroway's  strand. 


142  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEXIR. 


Brentiilda,  the  peerless, 
Sat  high  on  the  sand ; 
"When,  smack  I  o'er  the  water 
In  time  double  quick, 
Great  Alvar  came  down, 
Like  a  thousand  of  brick. 
Splash  1  into  the  ocean 
The  Vikingir  sprung. 
And  pick-back  the  princess 
O'er  slioulders  he  flung : 
Like  an  arrow  he  darted 
Tlie  wild  billows  through, 
And  into  the  "  Dragon," 
liiiExuiLDA  he  threw, 

While  all  hands  gave  f» 
yelL  and  took  drinks  on  the  strength  of  it ! 

By  the  Gods  of  Valualla  1 

I  'm  done  for  I"  she  cried. 
"  By  TnoR  and  by  thunder  I 

You  are  /"  he  replied. 

Xo  more  spake  the  maiden, 

No  more  spake  her  lord, 

But  he  stamped  on  the  short  deck 

And  brandished  his  sword. 
"  There  's  a  sail  to  the  leeward  I 

A  sail  in  our  path ! 

Do  you  hear  I  blood  and  brimstone  I 

Lok  I  blazes  I  and  wrath  I 

The  bier-sucker  madness 

Is  boiling  me  through  1" 

Then  ho  took  a  "  long  drink," 

And  right  into  it  flew, 

While  the  Ravens  all 

round  took  a  horn  and  went  at  it. 

Oh !  then  on  the  helmets 
The  dc.ith-bitcrs  rang, 
While  Alvar,  the  Raven, 
Swore,  murdered,  and  sang : 


THE    WEDDING-TRIP    OF   JARL   ALVAR    RAFN.     . 

"  The  deck  is  blood-painted  — 
A  wound,  all  the  bay  — 
While  round  rage  the  sea-wolves 
And  fight  for  their  prey. 
Breshilda  I  land-maiden ! 
Look  up,  and  you  '11  find 
How  the  Raven  can  '  go  it,' 
When  once  he  "s  inclined. 
See  these  skulls  I  how  I  split  'em ! 
These  throats  how  I  slice ; 
And  all  for  thy  sake,  love  1 
Thou  pearl  beyond  price  1" 

So  the  fight  being  over 
they  all  went  and  hquored 

"  The  Valkyries  scream 
For  the  souls  of  the  dead, 
While  Balder,  the  Sim-God, 
Shines  down  on  our  head !" 
So,  like  good,  pious  fellows, 
They  knelt  on  the  deck, 
And  thanked  the  great  gods 
That  their  foe  was  a  wreck. 
For  on  points  of  religion 
Great  Altar  was  "  strict," 
And  always  "  held  prayers" 
When  a  ship  had  been  licked. 
On  a  prisoner  they  found, 
By  unanimous  vote. 
They  first  carved  the  eagle, 
And  then  cut  his  throat ; 

Then,  church  being  over, 
adjourned  for  refreshment. 

And  over  the  ocean 

And  over  the  foam, 

Like  a  shot  from  a  shovel 

The  VnoKGiRS  come. 

Loud  roared  the  wild  tempest. 

Loud  roared  the  mad  sea. 


143 


144 


THE    AT  I- ANTIC    SOUVE.VIR. 

But  louder  great  Alvar 
Sang  forth  in  his  glee : 
"  Grim  spectres  sweep  o'er  ua 
In  lightning  or  gloom, 
1  see  their  eyes  gleaming 
Like  fire  round  a  tomb : 
The  Runes  of  the  valiant 
Dead  heroes  obey, 
Let 's  pitch  into  Naples 
And  plunder  and  prey!" 

So  they  gave  him  three  cheera, 
and  then  emptied  a  barrel. 

"  Set  fire  to  the  churches  I 
Set  fire  to  the  town ! 
Grab,  murder,  and  plunder, 
Drag  out  and  knock  down ! 
Go  it  strong,  ye  brave  Northmen, 
Crash,  tumble,  and  slash  I" 
Roared  the  Jarl,  as  with  each  hand 
He  held  a  mustache, 
And  glared  on  the  town, 
Like  a  wild  devil  grim : 
An  Aesir  in  fury, 
A  JoTUN  in  limb. 
Now  the  blue  shields  are  crimson, 
The  spires  are  in  flame. 
But  on  pitch  the  Ravens, 
All  grit  and  all  game: 

Only  stopping  to  bolt 
down  the  wine  on  the  altar. 

Like  fiends  winged  for  murder 
The  arrows  flew  forth. 
While  red  swords  were  ringing 
The  knell  from  the  North, 
And  maces,  deep  mashing, 
Laid  saints  in  the  mud ; 
While  tlio  l>lack  crow  and  eagle 
"Went  wading  in  blood. 


THE    WEDDING-TRIP    OF   JARL    ALVAR    RAFN.  145 

But  where  flames  were  loud  roaring 
With  Death  by  his  side, 
Rose  the  giant  Jarl  Alvar, 
In  glory  and  pride. 
"  "We  have  tlirashed  them  to  flinders 
And  knocked  'em  from  timel 
Brexhilda,  thou  white  one 
Say — is  n't  it  prime  ?" 

While  the  Northmen 

all  round  took  a  drink  from  their  helmeta 

"  The  men  are  all  murdered, 
The  town  all  aflame ; 
And  we  've  bagged  all  the  pewter ; 
Let 's  slope  whence  we  came  I 
And  under  a  full  head 
Of  glory  we  go : 
No  scald  now,  thank  Braga! 
Can  chalk  us  as  '  slow.' 
To  our  Death  Dragon  hasten : 
How  stately  and  light 
She  rides  the  bright  Belt 
Of  the  Daughter  of  Night  1 
And  be  glad  1  for  our  voyage 
Full  plainly  hath  shown 
That  the  gods,  when  we  're  pious, 
Look  after  their  own." 

So  they  took  one  good 
horn,  and  went  ofl:'  in  the  Dragon, 


IP 


|iSK0. 


BT      EEV.      GEOBOE     W .      BETHUNK,      D.D. 

It  is  not  long  since  that  Hamilton  County,  with  the  whole  region 
lying  between  the  fertile  slopes  of  the  Mohawk  and  Lake  Champlain, 
was  known  but  as  a  vast,  mountainous,  cold  tract,  presenting  the 
extreme  contrast  of  a  primeval  forest,  traversed  only  by  the  hunter 
of  the  deer,  the  bear,  and  the  moose.  Here  and  there  an  agricultural 
settler  along  its  borders  snatched  a  scanty  harvest  from  the  brief  sum- 
mer, and  on  the  eastern  side  the  lumberman  pursued  his  wintry  toil ; 
but,  once  past  the  log-cabin  of  the  one  or  the  shanty  of  the  other,  it 
was  literally  a  howling  wilderness,  where  the  yell  of  the  wolf,  the 
scream  of  the  panther,  and  the  laughter  of  the  owl  mingled  with  the 
roar  of  floods  and  the  moanings  of  the  winds  through  the  tall  hemlocks. 
Now  the  marvellous  beauty  of  its  scenery,  more  wildly  grand  than  any 
other  in  North-America,  diversified  by  many  lakes  of  crystal  purity 
and  their  foaming  outlets,  have  been  so  often  eloquently  described  by 
adventurous  litterateurs  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  trout,  and  coj)y 
money,  that  a  tour  through  Eacquette  and  the  Saranac  is  getting  to 
be  well-nigh  as  readily  undertaken  as  a  trip  to  the  Upper  Nile.  Even 
ladies  have  ventured  a  day  or  two  within  the  shadows,  and  before 
long  the  solitary  Indian,  who  lingers  in  the  hunting-grounds  of  hia 
fathers,  or  the  moccasined  woodsman,  paddling  his  "  birch,"  will  be 
startled  by  flotillas  gay  with  fashionable  drapery,  and  listen,  in  won- 
dering delight,  to  the  songs  of  Verdi  and  Auber  among  the  echoes  of 
Blue  Mountain,  Lines  of  rival  railways  have  already  been  traced 
through  the  gorges  and  along  the  streams ;  speculation  has  been  busy 
with  the   timber-lots,  and   soon  the  glory  of  the  forest,  unbroken 


148  THE    ATLANTIC    SOfVEMR. 

since  time  began  until  now,  will  be  floating  dowTi  the  St.  Lawrence 
and  the  Hudson,  or  whirled  at  the  tail  of  the  locomotive  to  the  sea- 
side. The  most  zealous  utilitarian  might  sadden  over  the  coming 
change,  were  it  not  that  a  century  must  go  by  before  the  industry  of 
man,  though  that  man  be  a  Yankee,  can  strip  the  rocky  heights  of 
their  ever-green  luxuriance. 

Following  from  the  Mohawk  side,  and  after  crossing  the  hill  which 
bounds  that  valley,  the  bank  of  the  noble  Sacondaga  (beait-ideal  of  a 
trout  river  to  an  angler  who  is  content  to  wade  deeply  fur  a  free  cast 
under  the  elms  on  pool  or  rapid)  to  the  neat  little  inn  of  Francisco, 
and  then  crossing  a  spur  of  the  mountain-range  by  a  road  rough  as 
the  bed  of  a  torrent,  the  traveller  will  find  himself  gazing  on  the 
placid  waters  and  rich  shores  of  Lake  Pleasant,  named  by  no  flatter- 
ing tongue,  for  a  more  lovely  scene  has  seldom  greeted  the  eye  of 
poet  or  artist ;  and,  yet  farther  on,  connected  with  it  by  a  short  strait. 
Round  Lake  sparkles  like  a  bowl  of  silver  wreathed  with  verdant  gar- 
land. Here  several  dwellings,  with  one  or  two  flourishing  farms,  are 
clustered  about  the  county  buildings,  and  a  well-kept  hotel  opens  its 
doors  in  welcome  to  a  tabic  spread  with  luxuries  unknown  among  the 
dwellers  on  the  plain.  At  the  time  when  the  incidents  happened  of 
which  I  am  about  to  write,  the  explorer,  if  not  accustomed  to  wood- 
craft, or  bent  upon  adventure,  tempted  the  diflTiculties  of  the  way  no 
farther;  nor  was  he  indisposed  to  linger,  where,  with  comfurt  at  night 
and  plenty  by  day,  he  could  win  rich  trophies  for  both  rod  and  gun, 
or  enjoy  the  beauty  around  him  varying  with  dawn  and  evening,  sun- 
light and  cloud.  But  perseverance  for  two  or  three  hours  would 
bring  him  to  another  lake,  the  Piscco,  far  more  lovely,  at  least  in  the 
judgment  of  one  rendered  perhaps  partial  by  memories  of  happy 
days  of  many  an  early  summer  spent  in  contemplating  its  virgin 
charms,  traversing  its  pure  bosom  and  enjoying  the  society  of  a  half- 
dozen  kindred  spirits,  far  from  the  dust  of  cities,  the  turmoil  of  trade, 
and  the  frivolities  of  artificial  life. 

In  this  country,  cspocially,  the  extreme  heats  that  alternate  with 
our  cold  winters,  and,  still  more,  the  suicidal  intensity  with  whirh  the 
American  f  jIIows  his  calling,  render  some  relief  necessary  to  mind, 
body,  and  heart ;  nor  can  any  of  us  who  live  in  towns  pass  from  the 


piSEco.  149 

exhaustions  of  one  season  to  those  of  the  next  without  some  interval 
of  change,  and  not  suffer  loss  of  physical  vigor,  intellectual  force,  and 
moral  health.  He  who,  in  His  wise  goodness,  has  made  us  so  "  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully,"  never  intended  our  material  or  spiritual  struc- 
ture for  such  constant  excess.  The  birth-place  of  man  was  amidst 
trees,  and  herbage,  and  flowing  waters.  There  are  the  works  of  God, 
and  there,  as  to  our  early  home,  should  we  at  times  turn  to  freshen 
our  being,  and  listen  to  the  voice  of  Him  who  talked  in  Paradise  with 
His  children.  It  is  not  relaxation  that  we  need.  Our  straining  of 
nerve  and  thought,  to  say  nothing  of  worse  habits  incident  to  our  per- 
verted modes  of  life,  has  already  too  much  relaxed  our  faculties  by 
recoil  from  the  tension.  What  our  nature  demands  is  invigoration,  a 
bracing  of  the  frame,  a  quickening  of  the  mind,  an  uplifting  of  the 
heart,  an  inhalation  of  fresh  life  from  its  original  sources,  that 
will  enable  us  to  grapple  more  strenuously  with  care,  and  duty, 
and  temptation.  This  can  not  be  gained  in  the  crowded  saloons  of 
watering-places,  or  at  the  lordly  country-seat,  to  which  have  been 
transferred  the  appliances  of  courtly  gratification,  or  by  rushing  over 
the  rapid  rail,  or  on  packed  steamers,  to  haunts  of  hackneyed  resorts, 
merely  to  say  that  we  have  made  the  fashionable  tour.  These  give 
us  no  opportunity  to  think,  no  motive  to  repent  and  resolve  anew. 
We  are  still  fettered  by  conventionalities.  The  wearisome  monotony 
of  whirling  excitements  still  sickens  our  aching  brain.  We  must 
break  away  from  the  crowd.  We  must  reach  a  spot  where  distance 
will  give  soberness  to  our  view  of  our  usual  occupations,  scenes  where 
we  can  gather  ideas,  sentiments,  and  emotions,  not  from  Avorldly  dic- 
tation or  even  the  page  covered  with  other  men's  thoughts ;  where 
we  can  hold  intercourse  with  our  fellow-men  who  spend  their  days 
more  simply  ;  but,  above  all,  where  we  can  be  alone  with  God  among 
the  works  of  His  hands,  and  hear,  answering  to  our  own,  the  pulses 
of  the  Infinite  Heart  which  fills  the  universe  with  truth  and  love. 

The  student,  long  shut  up  within  his  library,  and  the  servant  of 
his  race  in  religious  or  philanthropic  oflices,  need  such  a  change  quite 
as  much  as  men  of  business  or  pleasure.  Books,  precious  as  they  are 
for  enlargement  of  knowledge  and  instruction  from  the  past,  may  be 
abused  beyond  their  proper  function.    Classical,  scholastic,  and  (in  its 


150  THE   ATLAKTIC    SOUTEKIR. 

general  sense)  sectarian  forms,  constrict  and  distort  both  the  judg- 
ment and  the  feeling.  What  we  proudly  term  analysis  and  system 
arc  too  often  hut  an  arbitrary  classification,  under  whose  heads  we, 
Procrustes-like,  compress  or  stretch  out  truths  which  Mere  never 
meant  to  talce  such  exact  or  fixed  shapes,  but  should  be  allowed  con- 
fluence and  commixture,  losing,  like  the  hues  of  nature,  all  rigidness 
of  outline  in  harmony  and  kindred.  What  a  world  of  labor  have 
metaphysicians  wasted,  by  forgetting  that  they  are  not  mathema- 
ticians, and  endeavoring  to  hew  the  "  lively  stones"  into  such  shape  as 
may  be  fixed  in  a  building  of  their  architecture !  How  near  the  mate- 
rialist has  the  self-styled  idealist  come  by  such  affectations !  Too 
much  learning,  (the  scoffer  was  right,)  or,  rather,  learning  too  much 
by  itself,  will  make  a  wise  man  mad.  We  may  hide  our  souls  from 
our  own  view  by  our  parchments,  and  look  out  upon  the  world  of 
humanity  through  obstinate  hypotheses  as  false  as  gnarled  window- 
panes.  Critics  have  done  laughing  at  Wordsworth's  early  puerilities, 
but  every  close  student  feels  the  force  of  the  Laker's  exhortation : 

"  Up  !  up  1  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks ! 
"Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 
Up  1  up !  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 
Or  surely  you  '11  grow  double  1" 

Double  indeed  !  deformed  in  mind  as  well  as  body. 
I  Nor  will  it  answer  to  attempt  such  recuperation  by  force  of  wil. 
alone.  Accustomed  to  earnest  occupation,  we  can  not  change  the 
habit  which  has  become  a  law  to  us.  Though  we  leave  office, 
counting-room,  or  library  behind  us,  our  calling  will  pursue  us,  and 
force  our  thoughts  into  their  ordinary  ruts.  The  man  of  business 
will  be  calculating  his  risks;    the  studious   man  working  out  his 

theories. 

"  Post  equitem  sodet  atra  cura" 

We  can  not  shake  the  tormentor  from  the  crupper,  but  must  dis- 
mount from  our  hobby.  We  can  rid  ourselves  of  one  pursuit  only 
by  adopting  another  —  another  lighter,  less  imperious;  amusing,  but 
not  engrossing;  releasing  the  mind,  but  not  binding  it  again.  We 
must  have  iihw  instead  of  work;  yet  play  that  will  be  occupation. 


PISECO.  151 

Hence  the  value  Avhich  those  sturdy,  sober,  untranscendental,  un- 
mediseval  thinkers,  the  Scotch  wTiters,  have  set  upon  field-sports  and 
exercises  which  carry  them  out  among  the  heather,  over  the  moun- 
tain, and  along  the  stream.  Christopher  North,  (green  be  the  turf 
above  him  ! )  "  under  canvas,"  was  worth  more  as  a  philosopher, 
•aye,  as  a  philosopher,  than  any  cobweb-spinning  German,  or  back- 
ward-looking Oxonian  that  ever  ignored  common  humanity  and  its 
every-day  experience.  Dyspepsia  never  soured  his  moral  sentiments, 
and,  content  with  the  cheerful  sun,  he  left  twilight  to  owls  and  bats. 

Views  like  these  led  the  little  band  of  friends  already  spoken  of 
to  the  Piseco,  on  whose  romantic  bank  they  had  built  a  simple  lodge, 
and  whose  waters  abounded  with  several  varieties  of  that  aquatio 
family,  whose  charms  inspired  Davy,  not  less  admirable  as  a  moralist 
than  an  illustrator  of  natural  science,  to  write  his  Salmonia.  Some 
of  them  were  shrewd  and  successful  in  business ;  some  of  them 
more  given  to  books ;  one  of  them  a  preacher  of  Good  News, 
who  loved  his  work,  called  Chaplain,  not  without  warrant,  for  his 
office  was  no  sinecure;  and  all  of  them  "honest,  civil,  and 
temperate,"  as  all  anglers  should  be,  and  as  (according  to  Izaak 
Walton's  infallible  authority)  all  true  anglers  are.  The  lake  is 
about  seven  miles  long,  and  nearly  a  mile  and  a  half  wide.  Several 
bays  are  curved  out  of  the  shore,  the  deepest,  at  the  lower  end, 
called  from  an  Indian,  the  stories  told  of  whose  life  might  make  the 
whole  tradition  apocryphal,  had  he  not  left  his  name,  Girondicut 
(the  spelling  is  uncertain)  to  the  most  exquisite  part  of  the  water. 
Some  buildings,  most  of  them  abandoned  to  decay,  show  like  a 
peaceful  hamlet  at  the  upper  end,  but  are  hidden  by  a  wooded  pro 
montory  from  the  lodge,  before  whose  humble  porch  a  cleared  field, 
flourishing  with  corn  and  grass,  slopes  gently  toward  the  lake. 
Everywhere  else  Nature  is  in  her  wildest  grace  or  most  sublime 
magnificence. 

Up  in  the  morning  with  the  thrush,  (the  lark  Piseco  knows  not, 
but  the  thrush  is  as  early,)  each  in  his  well-trimmed  boat,  rowed  by 
a  sinewy  woodsman,  with  a  rod  out  over  each  side,  the  friends  parted 
to  troll  in  various  directions,  never  so  intent  on  their  game  as  not 
to  enjoy  the  shadows  deep  in  the  clear  waters,  or  watch  the  mists,  as 


152  THE    ATLANTIC   SOUTENIB. 

rolling  away  they  revealed  the  mountains  piled  in  grand  clusters,  oi 
stretching  farther  and  farther,  ridge  over  ridge,  until  their  undulating 
linos  were  lost  in  the  blue  sky.  Nay,  if  truth  be  told,  many  a 
finny  prowler  escaped  the  fate  due  to  his  murderous  appetite, 
because  the  thoughts  of  the  angler  were  wandering  in  delicious 
day-dreams,  or  aspiring  gratefully  to  God,  who  has  made  our 
way  to  heaven  lie  through  a  world  so  beautiful.  The  sultry 
noon  found  them  under  the  shadow  of  spreading  birch  trees,  near  a 
spring  of  icy  coldness,  where,  after  a  rude  but  welcome  meal,  they 
were  wont  to  recline  on  a  bank  carpeted  by  blossoming  strawberry- 
vines,  with  the  low  dash  of  the  rippling  wave  in  their  ear.  Then  it 
was  that  stories  of  the  morning  sport,  innocuous  jests,  and,  not 
seldom,  grave  yet  pleasant  discourse,  sped  the  moments  to  the 
cooler  hours  when  the  boats  were  manned  again,  and  they  parted 
until  the  shadows  fell :  then  another  chat  over  the  fragrant  "  cup  that 
cheers,  but  not  inebriates,"  and  to  sleep  soundly  and  sweetly  till  the 
sun  roused  them  to  renewed  gratifications.  News  of  political  strife, 
pressures  in  the  money-market,  or  foreign  wars,  never  penetrated 
those  pure,  peaceful  solitudes.  The  nearest  post-office  was  many 
miles  away  across  the  mountains,  and  tidings  only  of  the  beloved 
ones  at  home  were  allowed  to  come. 

Those  days  arc  gone  by,  and  the  cheer  of  those  friends  will  never 
be  heard  over  those  waters  again.  One,  the  most  revered  of  all, 
sleeps  in  a  holy  grave,  and  his  memory  fades  not  in  the  hearts  of  his 
comrades ;  in  other  haunts  of  wild  nature  they  greet  each  other  with 
unabated  affection ;  but  for  them  Piseco  is  a  word  of  memory,  not 
of  hope. 

The  Sabbath  there  had  peculiar  charms.  No  church-going  bell 
rang  through  the  woods,  no  decorated  temple  lifted  its  spire ;  but 
the  hush  of  divine  rest  was  upon  all  around,  a  sense  of  the  Holy 
One  rested  on  the  spirit,  the  birds  sang  more  sweetly,  the  dews 
of  the  morning  shimmered  more  brightly,  and  the  sounds  of  the 
forest  were  like  the  voice  of  psalms.  As  the  day  went  on  toward 
noon,  the  inhabitants,  whose  dwellings  were  scattered  for  miles 
around,  some  down  the  rocky  paths,  others  in  boats  on  the  lake, 
singly  or  in  companies,  men,  women,  and  little  ones,  might  be  seen 


FISECO.  153 

drawing  near  to  the  lodge,  where,  when  all  assembled,  they  formed  a 
respectful  and  willing  congregation  of  perhaps  fifty  worshippers, 
and  listened  to  the  words  of  the  preacher,  who  sought  to  lead 
them  by  the  Gospel  of  the  Cross  through  nature  up  to  the  God 
of  grace.  Such  opportunities  were  rare  for  them;  never,  indeed, 
was  a  sermon  heard  there  except  on  these  occasions.  The  devout 
(for  God  the  Saviour  had  a  "  few  names"  among  them)  "  received  the 
word  with  gladness;"  all  were  attentive,  and  their  visitors  found, 
when  joining  with  them  in  the  primitive  service,  a  religious  power 
seldom  felt  in  more  ceremonious  homage. 

On  one  of  those  sacred  days  there  came  among  the  rest  two  young, 
graceful  women,  whose  air  and  dress  marked  them  as  of  a  superior 
cultivation.  Their  modest  voices  enriched  the  trembling  psalmody, 
and  their  countenances  showed  strong  sympathy  with  the  preacher's 
utterances.  At  the  close  of  the  worship,  they  made,  through  one  of 
their  neighbors,  a  request  that  the  minister  would  pay  a  visit  to  their 
mother,  who  had  been  a  long  time  ill,  and  was  near  death.  A  pro- 
mise was  readily  given  that  he  would  do  so  the  same  day ;  but  their 
home  lay  four  miles  distant,  and  a  sudden  storm  forbade  the  attempt. 
The  Monday  morning  shone  brightly,  though  a  heavy  cloud  at  the 
west  suggested  precautions  against  a  thunder-shower.  The  friends 
parted  from  the  landing,  each  bent  upon  his  purpose ;  but  the  chap- 
lain's prow  was  turned  on  his  mission  of  comfort  to  the  sick.  Had 
any  prim  amateurs  of  ecclesiastical  conventionalities  seen  him  with 
his  broad-brimmed  hat,  necessary  for  shelter  from  the  sun,  a  green 
veil  thrown  around  it  as  defense  from  the  mosquitoes  near  the  shores, 
his  heavy  water-boots,  and  his  whole  garb  chosen  for  aquatic  exi- 
gences, (for,  like  Peter,  he  had  girt  his  fisher's  coat  about  him,)  they 
would  hardly  have  recognized  his  errand.  But  the  associations  of  the 
scene  with  the  Man  of  Nazareth  and  the  Apostles  by  the  Sea  of  Gali- 
lee, were  in  his  soul,  carrying  him  back  to  the  primitive  Christianity, 
and  lifting  him  above  the  forms  with  which  men  have  overlaid  its  sim- 
plicity.  The  boat  flew  over  the  placid  waters  in  which  lay  mirrored 
the  whole  amphitheatre  of  the  mountain-shores,  green  as  an  emerald. 
The  wooded  point  hid  the  lodge  on  the  one  side,  a  swelling  island  the 
hamlet  on  the  other.     No  trace  of  man  was  visible.     The  carol  of 


154  THK    ATLANTIC    SOl'VENIR. 

birds  came  ofT  from  the  land ;  now  and  then  the  cxultmg  merriment 
of  a  loon  rang  out  of  the  distance,  and  soon  a  soft,  southern  breeze, 
redolent  of  the  spicy  hemlock  and  cedar,  rippled  the  surflice.  The 
Sabbath  had  transcended  its  ordinary  hours,  and  shed  its  sweet  bless- 
ing  on  the  following  day.  Ilis  rods  lay  idly  over  the  stem  as  the 
chaplain  thought  of  the  duty  before  him,  and  asked  counsel  of  the 
Master,  who  "  Himself  bare  our  sicknesses  and  carried  our  sorrows." 
He  remembered  the  disciples  who  said,  "  Lord,  he  whom  thou  lovest 
is  sick ;"  and  the  gracious  answer,  "  This  sickness  is  not  unto  death, 
but  for  the  glory  of  God,  that  the  Son  of  Man  might  be  glorified 
thereby." 

It  is  not  imagination  merely  that  gives  such  power  to  the  living 
oracles,  when  they  come  to  us  where  the  testimony  of  nature  unites 
with  the  inspiration.  It  is  the  blessing  of  Jesus,  who  sought  the  wil- 
derness, the  shore,  and  the  mountain-side  to  gain  strength  from  com- 
munion with  his  Father.  It  was  in  such  solitudes  that  our  Example 
and  Forerunner  found  courage  for  his  trial  and  suffering.  Religion  is 
eminently  social,  but  its  scat  is  the  heart  of  the  individual  believer, 
and,  whatever  be  the  advantage  of  Christian  fellowship,  the  flame 
must  be  fed  in  private,  personal  converse  with  the  Father  of  our 
spirits.  lie  who  has  not  been  alone  with  God,  can  seldom  find  him 
in  the  crowded  church. 

A  brief  hour,  briefer  for  these  meditations,  brought  the  keel  of  the 
boat  to  a  gravelly  nook,  where  the  mouth  of  the  inlet  formed  a  little 
harbor.  There,  awaiting  the  chaplain's  arrival,  stood  a  tall,  upright 
man,  past  the  prime  of  life,  who,  with  a  style  of  courtesy  evidently 
foreign,  bared  his  gray  head,  and  greeted  his  visitor  by  name  as  a 
friend. 

"You  have  kindly  come,  sir,  to  see  my  poor  wife;  I  thank  you 
for  it.  She  is  now  expecting  you,  for  we  hoard  the  sound  of  your 
•oars  as  you  turned  the  island." 

A  rough  stone  house,  built  by  a  speculator  of  former  days, 
stood  on  a  knoll  a  little  way  from  the  stream,  and  the  garden  around 
it  was  trimmed  with  some  tasto.     As  they  entered,  the  owner  said  : 

"Welcome  to  the  mountain  dwelling  of  an  old  soldier!  He 
(pointing  to  an  engraved  portrait  of  Blucher,  wreatheil  with  lauroi 


pisEco.  155 

leaves,)  was  my  general,  whose  praise  1  once  received  as  I  lay 
wounded  on  the  field  of  battle.  I  am  a  Prussian,  Sir,  and  came  to 
this  country  when  my  father-land  had  no  farther  use  for  my  sword.  I 
have  not  been  successful  in  my  peaceful  life,  and  misfortune  after  mis 
fortune  drove  me  here,  hoping  to  gather  about  us  a  few  of  my  coun 
trymen,  and  make  a  German  home ;  but  in  that  I  was  disappointed. 
The  severe  winters  chilled  their  resolution,  and  now  we  are  by  our- 
selves. The  few  neighbors  about  us  are  not  of  our  class,  but  they  are 
kind  and  honest ;  and  the  world  has  nothing  to  tempt  me  back  to  it. 
I  have  one  brave  son  at  sea.  My  two  daughters  you  saw  yesterday. 
We  had  another,  but  she  sleeps  yonder." 

He  turned  abruptly  from  the  room.  The  chaplain,  left  to  him- 
self, observed  about  the  apartment  various  articles  of  refinement  and 
faded  luxury,  telling  the  story  of  more  prosperous  days.  His  subse- 
quent acquaintance  with  the  family  confirmed  his  first  impressions. 
Though  not  of  high  rank,  they  were  educated,  of  gentle  manners,  and, 
though  for  years  remote  from  cultivated  society,  preserved  the  ameni- 
ties which  now  distinguished  them.  Only  the  father  seemed  to  have 
suffered  for  want  of  occupation,  and,  not  unlikely,  from  habits  formed 
in  camp,  but  now  doubly  dangerous  in  seclusion. 

At  a  signal  from  another  room,  one  of  the  daughters  led  the  chap- 
lain to  the  bedside  of  the  sufferer.  The  fiither  sat  with  his  face  averted, 
near  an  open  window,  through  which  came  the  laughing  prattle  of  a 
child,  and  a  half-idiot  serving-woman  looked  in  wonderingly  across 
the  threshold  of  an  outer  kitchen.  The  daughters,  having  raised 
their  mother's  head  on  a  higher  pillow,  and  affectionately  smoothed 
her  thin  gray  hair  under  the  snow-white  cap,  withdrew  to  the  other 
side  of  the  bed.  The  chaplain  placed  his  broad  hat,  with  its  green 
veil,  on  the  little  table,  and  sat  silent  for  a  while,  not  knowing  how  to 
begin,  since,  as  yet,  nothing  had  given  him  a  clue  to  the  woman's  state 
of  mind.  She  lay  still  and  stone-like  ;  her  eyes  were  dry,  with  little 
"  speculation  "  in  them ;  her  lips  moved,  but  uttered  no  sound  ;  and 
her  hand,  feebly  stretched  out,  was  cold  and  stiff.  Her  whole  frame 
was  worn  to  extreme  thinness,  and  the  color  of  her  skin  told  that  the 
seat  of  her  disease  was  the  liver. 


156  THE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEXIR. 

At  length  the  chaplain,  seeing  that  her  soul  was  near  its  dread  pas- 
sage mto  the  eternal  future,  said  : 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  friend,  to  find  you  so  very  ill.  You  are  soon  to 
die." 

»  Yes." 

"  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  die ;  are  you  not  afraid  ?" 

"No." 

"  But  to  go  into  the  presence  of  God,  our  Judge,  is  a  most  solemn 
change." 

"Yes." 

"  And  are  you  not  afraid  ?" 

"  No." 

The  preacher  was  confounded.  The  short  answers,  almost  cold, 
without  emotion,  the  glazed  eye,  the  rigid  countenance,  caused  him  to 
doul)t  whether  he  had  to  contend  with  ignorance  or  insensibility. 
Anxious  to  rouse  some  feeling,  if  possible,  to  startle  into  some  atten- 
tion, as  a  physician  applies  the  probe,  he  pushed  severe  declarations 
of  certain  judgment  and  the  danger  of  impenitence,  reminded  her 
that  Christ,  the  Saviour  of  the  believing,  will  be  the  Avenger  of  sin, 
and  that  "  there  is  no  work  or  device  in  the  grave,"  but  "  as  the  tree 
falls,  so  it  must  lie."  The  tearless  eye  unwinkingly  gazed  on  him, 
and  no  shrinking  followed  liis  keen  surgery. 

"  Madam,  you  are  going  before  God,  and  do  you  not  fear  ?" 

A  faint  smile  stole  struggling  through  her  thin  features,  and  a  light, 
like  a  star  twinkling  under  a  deep  shadow,  was  seen  far  within  her 
eye,  and  pointing  with  her  finger  upward,  she  said,  in  a  firm,  low 
tone: 

"  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him." 

The  chaplain  bowed  his  head  on  the  pillow  and  wept  thanks.  Hero 
was  no  ignorant  or  callous  soul,  but  a  child  of  God,  whose  perfect  love 
had  cast  out  fear. 

"Yes,  Christian  soul,  you  are  not  afraid  of  evil  tidings;  your  heart 
is  fixed,  trusting  in  Him  who  went  this  way  before  you.  Fear  no  evil ; 
His  rod  and  His  staff,  they  will  comfort  you." 

"Amen!  blessed  be  His  name,"  replied  the  dying  believer. 
"  It  is  true.     I  know  in  whom  I  have  believed,  and  that  He  is  able  to 


pisEco.  157 

keep   what   I   have   committed    to   Him.      Because   He  hath  been 
my  Help,  therefore  under  His  wings  do  I  rejoice." 

It  seemed  now  as  if  the  fountain  of  her  speech  was  unsealed,  and 
though  no  moisture  was  in  her  eyes,  and  the  few  drops  which  started 
out  on  her  forehead  were  cold  and  clammy,  and  the  worn  lineaments 
had  lost  the  power  to  smile,  and  she  lay  still  as  marble,  yet,  with  a 
voice  clear  and  unfaltering,  she  went  on  to  testify  her  faith  in  Christ, 
and  of  the  peace  that  filled  her  soul,  A  strength  denied  to  her  body 
came  from  within. 

"  Oh !  sir,  I  thank  you  for  coming ;  I  thank  God  for  sending  you 
to  me,  like  the  angel  to  Hagar  in  the  wilderness.  I  prayed  for  it. 
It  is  four  long  years  since  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  Christian  minister, 
and  all  that  time  I  prayed  for  one  to  hold  the  water  of  life  to  my  lips 
once  more.  Now  I  know  that  He  has  heard  me;  blessed  be  His 
name !" 

The  preacher  interrupted  her  to  say  that  she  had  not  been  left  alone 
by  her  God,  who  needed  not  man's  lips  to  comfort  his  people. 

"  Alone !  no,  never  alone !  I  have  seen  Him  in  His  mighty 
works.  I  have  heard  Him  in  the  storms  of  winter  and  in  the  summer 
winds.  I  had  my  Bible,  His  own  holy  word.  His  Spirit  has  been 
with  me.  But  I  thank  Him  for  the  voice  of  His  commissioned 
servant,  whose  duty  is  to  comfort  His  people." 

The  reader  of  this  imperfect  sketch  can  have  little  idea  of  the  elo- 
quence, almost  supernatural,  pervaded  by  Scriptural  language  and 
imagery,  with  which  she  spoke.  It  was  the  soul  triumphing  over  tho 
fainting  flesh ;  truth  in  its  own  energy,  unaided  by  human  expression  ; 
a  voice  of  the  dead,  not  sepulchral,  but  of  one  near  the  gate  of 
heaven. 

The  chaplain  knelt  beside  the  bed  and  all  the  rest  knelt  with  him ; 
but  there  was  more  of  thanks  than  petition  in  his  prayer.  The  clouds 
that  hung  about  the  borders  of  eternity  were  so  bright  with  the  glory 
beyond,  that  sorrow  and  pain  were  forgotten  as  he  gave  utterance  to 
the  dying  woman's  memories  and  hopes,  the  memories  of  grace  and 
the  hopes  of  immortality  that  met  together  in  her  faithful  heart. 
Nor  need  I  add  that  his  own  gratitude  was  strong  to  the  Good 
Shepherd,  who  had  sent  him  to  find  this  sheep  among  the  mountains. 


168  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

not  lost  nor  forgotten,  but  longing  for  a  t^ken  of  her  Saviour's 
care. 

"When  he  rose  from  his  knees,  she  thanked  him  again,  Lut  with 
more  visible  emotion  than  before,  said  : 

"  Sir,  I  doubt  not  God  directed  you  here ;  and  there  is  one  favoi 
more  I  have  asked  of  IIim  and  now  ask  tln-ougli  you.  Three  years 
ago  my  eldest  daughter  died  in  my  arms,  assured  of  rest,  but  leaving 
behind  her  a  babe  not  two  weeks  old.  '  Mother,'  she  said,  just  as  she 
was  dying,  '  I  leave  my  child  with  you  to  bring  her  to  me  in  heaven. 
You  will  do  it  for  Christ's  sake,  and  mine,  and  hers,  mother.  And, 
mother.  He  has  told  us  to  give  little  children  to  Him  in  baptism. 
Dear  mother,  promise  that  my  child  shall  be  baptized.'  J  promised, 
and  her  spirit  departed.  Ever  since,  I  have  been  praying  and  waiting 
for  some  minister  to  find  his  way  to  us,  but  in  vain.  More  than  once 
I  heard  of  some  who  had  come  as  far  as  Lake  Pleasant,  but  none 
TvAched  Piseco,  and  I  almost  feared  that  I  should  die  and  not  be  able 
to  tell  my  child  in  heaven  that  the  blessed  water  had  been  on  her 
baby's  face.  Yet,  even  in  this,  God  has  been  good  to  me.  You  will 
baptize  my  little  one  1" 

How  gladly  the  chaplain  assented,  may  be  readily  imagined.  The 
child  was  called  in  from  her  play  on  the  grass-plat ;  her  rosy,  wonder- 
ing face  was  gently  washed,  and  her  light  brown  hair  parted  on  her 
forehead,  and  she  stood,  with  her  bare  white  feet,  on  a  low  bench  by 
her  grandmother's  pillow.  The  grandfather  filled  an  antique  silver 
bowl  with  water,  freshly  dipped  from  a  spring  near  the  door.  An 
old  brass-clasped  folio  of  Luther's  Bible  was  laid  open  at  the  family 
record  beside  the  -water,  the  chaplain's  broad  hat  on  the  other  side. 
He  thought  not,  and  none  thought  of  his  coarse  gray  coat  or  his  heavy 
boots.  He  was  full  of  liis  sacred  office,  and  the  presence  of  the 
Invisible  was  upon  him.  The  feeble  woman,  strengthened  by  love 
and  faith,  raised  herself  higher  on  the  bed  and  put  her  wasted  arm 
over  the  plump  shoulders  of  the  fair,  bluc-eycd  child.  The  old  man 
and  his  daughters,  and  the  dull-witted  servant  at  the  kitchen-door, 
reverently  standing,  sobbed  aloud;  and,  amidst  the  tears  of  all  except 
her  whose  source  of  tears  was  dried  up  for  ever,  the  chaphnn  recited 
the  touching  prayer  of  the  Reformed  Churches  l»efore  the  baptism  of 


PISECO.  159 

infants,  and  with  the  name  of  the  departed  mother  breathed  over  her 
orphan,  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Holt  Ghost,  she  was  dedicated  to  God  by  water  sprinkled  three 
times  on  her  sweet  grave  face.  The  grandfather  handed  a  pen  to  the 
chaplain,  but  it  was  lightly  pressed  to  trace  the  inscription,  for  the 
page  was  wet  with  the  big  drops  that  fell  from  the  old  man's  eyes. 

Many  moments  elapsed  before  the  thanksgiving  could  be  uttered, 
and  then  the  happy  saint  joyfully  exclaimed : 

"  Bless  you.  Sir !  I  bless  God  that  he  has  granted  me  this  grace 
before  I  die.     Now  I  am  ready  to  go  to  my  child  in  heaven." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  answered  the  preacher,  "  it  is,  indeed,  a  blessed 
ordinance ;  but  the  child  of  prayers  for  two  generations  would  not 
have  missed  the  promise  because  of  an  impossibility  on  your  part." 

"  No,  no !  the  spirit  is  better  than  the  form.  She  had  the  promise. 
/  knew  that  she  was  in  the  covenant,  but  I  wanted  her  in  the  folcV 

The  chaplain  entered  his  boat.  Never  did  lake,  and  mountain, 
and  green  shore  look  so  beautiful,  for  they  seemed  all  bathed  with 
holy  light;  and  that  noon,  when,  with  his  friends  reclining  on  the 
sward,  he  told  the  story  of  the  baptism  in  the  wilderness,  their 
moistened  eyes  expressed  their  sympathy  with  his  joy. 

Heaven  opened  for  the  grandmother  a  few  days  afterward.  The 
next  year  her  Saviour  took  up  her  child's  child  in  his  arms,  and  the 
three  were  together  among  the  angels.  The  grandfather  lived  but  a 
short  time.  One  of  the  daughters  having  married  a  farmer,  moved, 
with  her  sister,  down  into  the  open  country,  where  she  also  died  in 
her  young  beauty.  Of  the  two  other  members  of  the  family,  I  have 
heard  nothing  since. 

The  old  stone  house  still  stands  near  the  rushing  inlet,  but  the 
storms  beat  through  its  broken  windows.  Rank  weeds  have  over-run 
the  garden,  and  brambles  hide  the  spiking  near  the  kitchen  door.  Yet 
the  path  from  the  landing-place  can  be  followed ;  and  should  any  of 
my  readers  ever  visit  Piseco,  now  more  accessible,  but  charming  as 
ever,  they  can  easily  recognize  the  scene  of  my  story.  It  is  ever  fresh 
and  hallowed  in  my  memory ;  for  there  I  learned,  by  precious  expe- 
rience, that  the  good  God  never  forgets  those  who  trust  in  Him,  and 
that,  go  where  we  will,  we  may  carry  His  blessing  with  us  to  some 
heart  thirsting  for  His  word. 


ee/-k —  -'  /  r7  f  I  e 


T" 


i,a  f  0uis  iagli^ritf  Clarli,  isquirje 


BY    FITZ-GKEBNE    HALLEOE. 


I've  greeted  many  a  bonny  bride 

On  many  a  bridal  day, 
In  homes  serene  and  summer-skied, 
Where  Love's  spring-buds,  with  joy  and  prid9 

Had  blossomed  into  May; 
But  ne'er  on  lovelier  bi'ide  than  thine 
Looked  these  delighted  eyes  of  mine, 
And  ne'er,  in  happier  bridal  bower 
Than  hers,  smiled  rose  and  orange  flower 

Through  green  leaves  glad  and  gay, 
When  bridesmaids,  grouped  around  her  room, 
In  youth's,  in  truth's,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Entwined,  with  merry  fingers  fair. 
Their  garlands  in  her  sunny  hair ; 
Or  bosomed  them,  with  graceful  art. 
Above  the  beatmgs  of  her  heart. 

I  well  remember,  as  I  stood 
Among  that  pleasant  multitude, 
A  stranger,  mateless  and  forlorn. 
Pledged  bachelor,  and  hermit  sworn. 
That,  when  the  holy  voice  had  given, 

In  consecrated  words  of  power, 
The  sanction  of  approving  Heaven 

To  marriage-ring,  and  roof,  and  dower' 
When  she,  a  Wife,  in  matron  pride, 
Stood,  life-devoted,  at  thy  side: 
11 


162  THE   ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

When  happy  lips  had  pressed  her  check, 

And  happiest  lips  her  "bonny  mou'," 
And  slie  had  smiled,  with  blushes  meek, 

On  my  congratulary  bow, 
A  sunbeam,  balmy  with  delight, 
Entranced,  subdued  me,  till  I  quite 

ForB;ot  my  anti-nuptial  vow. 
And  almost  asked^  with  serious  brow 

And  voice  of  true  and  earnest  tone, 
Tlie  bridesmaid  with  the  prettiest  face 
To  take  me,  heart  and  hand,  and  grace 

A  wedding  of  my  own. 

Time's  years,  it  suits  me  not  to  say 

How  many,  since  tliat  joyous  day, 

Have  watcheil,  and  cheered  thee  on  thy  way 

O'er  Duty's  chosen  path  severe, 
And  seen  thee,  heart  and  thought  full  grown, 
Tread  manhood's  thorns  and  tempters  down. 

And  win,  Uke  Pythian  charioteer, 
The  wreaths  and  race-cups  of  renown  — 
Seen  thee,  thy  name  and  deeds,  enslirined 
"Within  the  peerage-book  of  mind  — 
And  seen  my  morning  prophecy 
Truth-blazoned  on  a  noon-day  sky. 
That  he,  wliose  worth  could  win  a  wife 

Lovely  as  thine,  at  Life's  beginning, 
"Would  always  wield  the  power,  through  hfe, 

Of  winning  all  things  worth  the  winning. 

Hark  1  there  arc  songs  on  Summer's  breeze. 
And  dance  and  song  in  Summer's  trees. 
And  choruses  of  birds  and  bees 

In  Air,  their  world  of  happy  v.-ings; 
"Wliat  far-off  minstrelsy,  wlioso  tone 
And  words  are  sweeter  than  then-  own. 

Has  waked  these  cordial  welcomings? 
'Tis  nearer  now,  and  now  more  near, 
And  now  rings  out  like  clarion  clear. 
They  come  —  the  merry  bells  of  Fame  I 
They  come  —  to  glad  me  with  thy  r-ame. 


TO    LOUIS    GAYLORD    CLARK,    ESQUIRE.  163 

And,  borne  upon  theix  music's  sea, 
From  wave  to  wave,  melodiously, 
Glad  tidings  bring  of  thine  and  thee. 
They  tell  me  that,  Life's  tasks  well  done, 
Ere  shadows  mark  thy  westering  sun, 
Thy  Bark  has  reached  a  quiet  shore. 
And  rests,  with  slumbering  sail  and  oar. 
Fast  anchored  near  a  Cottage  door, 

Thy  home  of  pleasantness  and  peace, 
Of  Love,  with  eyes  of  Heaven's  blue, 
And  Health,  with  cheek  of  rose's  hue, 

And  Riches,  with  "the  Grolden  Fleece:" 
Where  slie,  the  Bride,  a  Mother  now. 

Encircled  round  with  sons  and  daughters, 
"Waits  my  congratulary  bow 

To  greet  her  Cottage  woods  and  waters ; 
And  thou  art  proving,  as  in  youth. 
By  daily  kindnesses,  the  truth 
And  wisdom  of  tlie  Scottish  rhyme  — 
"  To  make  a  happy  fii-eside  clime 

For  children  and  for  wife. 
Is  the  true  pathos  and  subhme," 

And  green  and  gold  of  Life. 

From  long-neglected  garden-bowers 

Come  these,  my  songs'  memorial  flowers, 
"With  greetings  from  my  heart,  they  come 
To  seek  the  shelter  of  thy  home ; 
Though  faint  their  hues,  and  brief  their  bloom, 
And  all  unmeet  for  gorgeous  room 
Of  "honor,  love,  obedience, 

"  And  troops  of  friends,"  like  thine. 
I  hope  thou  wilt  not  banish  thence 

These  few  and  fading  flowers  of  mine, 
But  let  theu"  theme  be  their  defense. 
The  love,  the  joy,  the  frankincense, 

And  fi-agrance  o'  Lang  Syne. 


Foet-Lee,  N.  J. 


BY      JOHN      ■«".     FBANCI8. 

How  precious  a  boon  is  memory ;  how  prolific  of  disquisition  in 
the  writings  of  the   psychologist ;    how  rich   in   associations  when 
treated  by  the  poet;  how  full  of  pleasures  and  of  pains  in  him  who 
has  cherished  this  function  of  the  mind  by  a  proper  observance  of  the 
laws  of  organic  health,  without  which  soundness  of  intellect  is  im- 
paired, and  our  mental  impressions  resolved  in  a  state  of  cloudiness, 
or  lost  in  oblivion.     As  this  great  quality  of  the  mind  furnishes  our 
most  accurate  knowledge;  as  by  it  we  retain  our  power  of  recall- 
ing the  various  and  numerous  incidents  of  by-gone  days,  it  summons 
our  associations,  as  the  occasion  may  demand,  and  yields  gratification 
or  suffering,  according  as  life  has  been  appropriated  in  furtherance  of 
the  proper  destiny  of  our  race.     As  retrospective  reflections  possess 
within  themselves  a  permanence  of  impression  denied  to  prospective 
views,  and  as  time  seems  gradually  to  absorb  the  intensity  of  painful 
associations,  the  poet  Rogers  inculcates  the  belief,  that  as  we  advance 
in  existence,  past  associations  become  less  and  less  blended  with 
sorrows,  and  unmixed  gratification  crowns  the  issue.     It  were  well, 
indeed,  could  we  be  entirely  confident  of  the  truth  of  this  theory  of 
the  mind.     We  must,  however,  leave  it  to  the  school-men  to  descant 
on,  and  to  old  heads  to  enjoy  the  fruition. 

He  who  has  passed  a  period  of  some  three-score  years  and 
upward,  some  faithful  Knickerbocker,  for  instance,  native  born,  and 
ever  a  resident  among  us,  whose  tenacious  memory  enables  him  to 
meditate  upon  the  thirty  thousand  inhabitants  at  the  time  of  his  birth 
with  the  almost  oppressive  population  of  some  seven  hundred  thou- 
sand which  the  city  at  present  contains ;  who  contrasts  the  cheap  and 


166  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVEXIR 

humble  dwellings  of  that  earlier  date  with  the  costly  and  magnificent 
edifices  which  now  beautify  the  metropolis ;  who  studies  the  sluggish 
state  of  the  mechanic  arts  at  the  dawn  of  the  Republic,  and  the 
mighty  demonstrations  of  skill  which  our  Fulton,  and  our  Stevens, 
our  Douglass,  our  Iloe,  our  !^^orse,  have  produced ;  who  remembers 
the  few  and  humble  water-craft  conveyances  of  days  past,  and  now 
beholds  the  majestic  leviathans  of  the  ocean  which  crowd  our  har- 
bors ;  who  contemplates  the  partial  and  trifling  commercial  transac- 
tions of  the  Confederacy  with  the  countless  millions  of  commercial 
business  which  engross  the  people  of  the  present  day  in  our  Union  ; 
who  estimates  the  oflspring  of  the  press,  and  the  achievements  of  the 
telegraph ;  he  who  has  been  the  spectator  of  all  this  may  be  justly 
said  to  have  lived  the  period  of  many  generations,  and  to  have  stored 
within  his  reminiscences  the  progress  of  an  era  the  most  remarkable 
in  the  history  of  his  species. 

If  he  awakens  his  attention  to  a  consideration  of  the  progress  of 
intellectual  and  ethical  pursuits,  if  he  advert  to  the  prolific  demon- 
strations which  surround  him  for  the  advancement  of  knowledge, 
literary  and  scientific,  moral  and  religious,  the  indomitable  spirit 
of  the  times  strikes  him  with  more  than  logical  conviction.  The 
beneficence  and  humanity  of  his  countrymen  may  be  pointed  out  by 
contemplating  her  noble  free  schools,  her  vast  hospitals  and  asylums 
for  the  alleviation  of  physical  distress  and  mental  infirmities;  with 
the  reflection  that  all  these  are  the  triumphs  of  a  self-governed  people, 
accomplished  within  the  limited  memory  of  an  ordinary  life.  Should 
reading  enlarge  the  scope  of  his  knowledge,  let  him  study  the  times 
of  the  old  Dutch  governors,  when  the  Ogdcns  erected  the  first  church 
in  the  fort  of  New- Amsterdam,  in  1G42,  and  then  survey  the  vast 
panoramic  view  around  him  of  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  and  more 
edifices  now  consecrated  to  the  solemnities  of  religious  devotion.  It 
imparts  gratification  to  know  that  the  old  Bible  which  was  used  in 
tliat  primary  church  of  Van  Twiller  is  still  preserved  by  a  descend- 
ant of  the  builder,  a  pi-ecious  relic  of  the  property  of  the  older 
period,  and  of  the  devotional  impulse  of  those  early  progenitors.* 

*  The  Bible,  that  l.^s  the  IToly  Scriptures  contained  In  the  Old  and  New  TMt«menta.  Quarto. 
Ii  ijiHntcd  at  London,  by  Uobort  Hiirkcr,  Printer  to  the  King,  1C15,  followed  by  Sternhold  A 
ll'"ikln8'  Psalm*.    This  volntne  Ls  now  In  tho  posscs»ion  of  Dr.  Ojrden,  of  New-York. 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    COLLES.  1G7 

To  crown  the  whole,  time  in  its  course  has  recognized  the  supremacy 
of  political  and  religious  toleration,  and  established  constitutional 
freedom  on  the  basis  of  equal  rights  and  even  and  exact  justice  to  all 
men.  That  New- York  has  given  her  full  measure  of  toil,  expenditure, 
and  talent  in  furtherance  of  these  vast  results,  by  her  patriots  and 
statesmen,  is  proclaimed  in  grateful  accents  by  the  myriad  voice  of 
the  nation  at  large. 

But  however  gratifying  to  national  feeling  our  cogitations  on 
themes  of  this  nature  might  prove,  they  fall  not  within  the  scope 
of  our  present  intentions.  A  special  and  much  more  definite  object 
on  this  occasion  is  a  reference  to  individuality.  While  we  ponder  at 
our  leisure  on  those  great  issues  already  hinted  at,  we  feel  that 
specific  justice  has  not  been  awarded  to  individual  merit ;  and  that  in 
our  general  glorification  of  acts  and  principles,  we  have  proved 
laggard  in  our  encomiums  on  the  authors  and  the  actors  of  the  very 
deeds  which  invoke  our  panegyric.  The  most  amiable  tendency  of 
the  human  heart  is  the  intrinsic  appreciation  of  the  noble  spirits  of 
a  land,  whose  services  have  conferred  benefits  of  wide  and  lasting 
duration;  wisdom  no  less  than  gratitude  cherishes  their  memories, 
and  the  example  of  their  life  is  the  most  powerful  stimulus  to  future 
eflforts  on  the  part  of  their  successors.  A  people  who  cherish  this 
reverence  must  naturally  possess  that  delicious  frame  of  mind  whose 
most  effective  powers  are  manifested  in  the  results  of  a  philanthropic 
spirit,  and  whose  joys  are  most  in  harmony  with  the  diviner  essence 
of  our  nature. 

Duly  to  estimate  the  career  of  duty,  which  has  marked  the  lives 
of  the  men  who  thus  by  individual  or  confederated  toil  reared  up  the 
nation  to  a  commanding  and  an  exemplary  attitude,  it  becomes  obli- 
gatory on  us  to  scrutinize  in  distinctive  cases  the  circumstances  which 
checked  or  advanced  their  praiseworthy  impulses  for  the  public  weal. 
It  is  only  by  such  investigations  and  inquiries  that  we  become  proper 
umpires  of  their  merits,  can  truthfully  award  the  just  meed  of  praise, 
or  hold  in  reverence  their  claims  to  regard.  As  at  the  juridical 
tribunal  circumstantial  evidence  is  demanded,  in  order  to  arrive  at  a 
proper  conclusion  and  pronounce  an  honest  verdict  in  the  premises, 
so  in  the  various  occupations  and  transactions  of  men,  we  associate  the 


168  THE  ATLANTIC  SOIJVENIiv. 

immediate  and  contingent  relationship  of  affairs  in  oiJcr  to  arrive  at 
just  conclusions. 

A  striking  example  to  illustrate  this  opinion  of  life  and  its  attend- 
ant struggles  is  to  be  found  in  the  auto-biography  of  Franklin.  His 
Honest  chronicle  of  all  his  thoughts  and  doings  enables  us  to 
recognize  his  extraordinary  intellect,  and  his  mighty  services  for  the 
age  in  which  he  flourished  and  for  all  posterity,  with  a  truthfulness 
we  could  never  otherwise  have  obtained ;  and  his  renown  is  only  ren- 
dered more  enduring  when  we  contemplate  the  extremes  of  his  exist- 
ence— the  destitute  journeyman  printer,  and  the  noble  statesman  and 
philosopher :  the  self-taught  sage  is  vested  with  still  brighter  renown 
when  we  find  him  at  one  time  at  the  compositor's  case,  and,  after  suc- 
cessive changes,  in  the  parliamentary  arena,  convicting  the  haughty 
Wedderbum  of  ignorance  and  insolence,  to  the  admiration  of  a  whole 
senate,  and  the  approval  of  a  Burke  and  a  Priestley.  lie  betrayed 
the  lofty  aspiration  of  his  nature,  when,  even  a  stripling  in  years,  he 
was  solicitous  of  being  introduced  to  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  the  philoso- 
pher whose  glories  his  own  were  destined  afterward  to  outshine. 
The  cognomen  of  the  penniless  youth  became  a  national  name  —  the 
appellation  of  the  land  of  his  birth  —  and  American  citizen,  and  a 
countryman  of  Franklin,  were  synonymous  terms. 

Like  remarks,  and  of  a  like  tendency  might  be  made  in  the  case 
of  Fulton.  The  extraordinary  trials  of  his  early  life,  the  provoca- 
tions he  endured  fur  years  in  his  investigations  and  experimental 
essays,  ere  he  accomplished  navigation  by  steam,  endear  the  man  to 
us  in  a  ten-fold  view.  I  had  the  honor  of  a  personal  acquaintance 
with  him.  His  liberal  nature,  his  frank  utterance,  his  chivalric  bear- 
ing, all  pronounced  him  one  of  Nature's  noblest  gifts.  Neither  the 
jeers  of  the  vulgar  nor  the  scoffs  of  the  sciolist  ever  disturbed  his 
equanimity  or  lessened  the  confidence  he  cherished  in  the  ultimate 
results  of  his  bold  project.  After  his  successful  toils  on  the  Hudson, 
it  was  affirmed  it  would  be  impossible  to  navigate  in  the  East  River, 
or  cross  the  ferry  to  Brooklyn,  because  of  the  force  of  the  currents. 
The  folly  of  the  declaration  was  soou  demonstrated,  and  his  floating 
dock,  the  subject  of  laughter  by  the  unwise,  completed  the  work  ho 
had  long  cogitated.   Wiion,  soon  after  it  was  ascertained  that  this  lost 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    COLLES.  169 

labor  of  his  had  been  adopted  at  Liverpool,  and  elsewhere  abroad, 
the  skeptics  disappeared.  European  approval  had  been  secured,  and 
his  sagacity  and  talent  proclaimed  even  in  the  plaudits  of  his  own 
countrymen.  But  this  was  at  a  time  when  an  American  printed 
book  sold  best  with  the  imprint  of —  London :  John  Jones,  Piccadilly. 

If  we  view  the  early  life  of  Fulton,  and  hold  in  memory  his 
achievements  —  at  first  the  humble  watch-maker,  and  finally  the  man 
who,  by  his  individual  prowess,  changed  the  relationships  of  remotest 
people,  and  brought  the  old  and  the  new  worlds  as  neighbors 
together;  who,  with  pecuniary  resources  as  nothing,  save  in  the 
liberality  of  Chancellor  Livingston,  has  established  the  comity  of 
nations,  and  effected  an  annual  profit  to  his  country  of  more  than  one 
hundred  millions  of  dollars,  our  estimate  of  his  brilliaiit  career 
becomes  higher  and  higher  by  a  proper  study  of  his  biography. 
Golden  has  given  his  interesting  story,  and  Tuckerman,  in  his  Ameri- 
can Portraits,  has  drawn  him  to  the  life. 

Another  instance  may  be  cited  of  profitable  influence,  in  the  case 
of  De  Witt  Clinton.  We  need  not  advert  to  the  early  portions  of 
his  career.  He  was  always  a  student,  and  it  is  sufficiently  known  to 
all  that  he  identified  himself  with  the  great  interests  of  public  educa- 
tion and  humanity.  He  was  a  naturalist  of  no  mean  pretensions,  and 
mineralogy,  geology,  and  botany  were  the  pursuits  of  his  pastime. 
To  judge  of  his  merits  in  the  organization  of  the  canal  policy  of  the 
State  of  New- York,  it  behooves  the  inquirer  after  truth  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  financial  career  and  condition  of  the  State,  the 
history  of  its  political  leaders  and  factions,  the  force  of  public  opinion, 
the  persecuting  vindictiveness  of  party  strife,  and  the  poison  of  a 
hireling  press.  No  measure  of  such  magnitude  as  the  Erie  and  Hud- 
son Canal  was  ever  accomplished  under  such  disheartening  embarrass- 
ments. In  the  great  city  most  to  be  benefited  by  its  completion  the 
opposition  to  it  was  strongest ;  and  many  of  those  who  cherished 
feelings  favorable  to  the  undertaking  were  luke-warm  in  the  project : 
the  river  counties  were  to  be  ruined  by  it,  and  a  general  bankruptcy 
of  the  State  was  to  follow.  It  was  affirmed  that  it  was  premature  to 
be  involved  in  such  a  mighty  if  not  preposterous  work.  Clinton  had 
early  written  to  Jefferson  on  the  subject,  and  pointed  out  the  practica 


170  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

bility  aiid  advantages  of  the  design.  Mr.  Jefiersou  writes  in  answer 
that  he  thinks  the  time  for  such  a  vast  work  too  early  by  a  century. 
Upon  its  completion,  Clinton  informs  him  that  all  doubts  of  the  prac- 
ticability of  the  measure  must  now  cease.  Jcfiorsoii,  in  reply,  con- 
gratulates him,  and  adds,  in  substance,  "  My  opinion  only  shows  that  1 
have  lived  one  hundred  years  too  soon."  The  indomitable  mind  of 
Clinton  rose  superior  to  all  obstacles.  Under  the  guidance  of  his 
counsels,  and  his  inflexible  perseverance,  the  mighty  undertaking  was 
brought  to  a  successful  issue.  His  eulogist,  Charles  King,  thus  elo- 
quently speaks  of  him  :  "  In  the  great  work  of  internal  improvement 
he  persevered  through  good  report  and  through  evil  report  with  a 
steadiness  of  purpose  that  no  obstacle  could  divert ;  and  when  all  the 
elements  were  in  commotion  against  him,  and  even  his  chosen  asso- 
ciates were  appalled,  he  alone,  like  Columbus  on  the  wide  waste  of 
waters,  in  his  frail  bark,  with  a  disheartened  and  unbelieving  crew, 
remained  firm,  self-possessed,  and  unshaken." 

The  distinctive  merits  of  individuals,  such,  for  example,  as  those 
we  have  now  mentioned,  whose  renown  must  endure  for  ages,  are  only 
to  be  fittingly  awarded  by  thoroughly  understanding  the  circum- 
stances inherent  in  their  very  position  of  life,  their  huhiiat,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  language  of  botany,  when  discoursing  on  the  properties  of 
plants.  Tills  rule  observed,  how  preeminently  do  they  increase  in 
*  our  estimate  of  their  virtues,  emphatic  as  their  works  proclaim  their 
noble  powers!  Were  the  writers  of  American  biography  more 
attentive  to  considerations  of  this  kind ;  Were  we  furnished  with  more 
of  what  is  termed  ana,  in  the  sketches  and  accounts  of  our  illustrious 
men ;  were  the  novelty  of  situation,  tlve  condition  of  a  new  people,  and 
that  pioneer  eflbrt,  so  arduous,  yet  so  inseparable  from  our  country, 
dwelt  upon,  we  would  love  with  a  greater  devotion  the  character  of 
the  men  who  wrought  for  us  such  blessings,  while  our  patriotism  for 
the  land  of  our  birth,  and  the  heritage  bequeathed  us,  would  bo 
cherished  with  a  loftier  estimate  of  their  intellectual  worth. 

A  glance  at  the  advanced  state  of  education  at  the  present  time, 
compared  with  that  of  a  former  period,  when  instruction  in  the  new 
republic  was  sparsely  provided,  when  competent  teaeliers  were  rarely 
'^'""'1  and  school  discipline  depended  upon  the  arbitrary  decision  of  a 


REMINISCENCES    OP   CHRISTOPHER   COLLES.  Ill 

vain-glorious  and  ignorant  pedagogue,  would  lessen  our  surprise  that 
so  few  well-armed  scholars  have  been  reared  among  us.  But  even 
this  state  of  education  has  not  wholly  suppressed  the  reputation  we 
may  claim  for  distinguished  examples  of  scholarship.  In  these  days, 
of  more  critical  acumen,  the  science  of  mind  seems  better  compre- 
hended, and  studies  apter  for  diversities  of  intellect,  are  selected  with 
better  judgment  and  urged  with  greater  fidelity.  I  tax  memory  for 
a  case  in  point  under  the  older  regime.  I  was  a  youngster  at  the 
same  school  in  New-York  with  Washington  Irving.  Every  thing,  I 
believe,  was  professed  to  be  taught  by  the  Principal.  I  remember 
how  rigid  was  his  law  in  enforcing  public  speaking ;  every  scholar 
was  assuredly  to  be  made  a  Cicero.  The  selections  assigned  to 
each  speaker  were,  according  to  the  master's  deeper  knowledge  of 
the  temperament  and  physical  qualities  of  the  scholar.  "  Pity  the 
sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man !"  was  given  me.  To  young  Irving,  who 
had  the  advantage  of  more  years,  capacity,  and  strength,  was  assigned 
the  heroic  speech,  "  My  voice  is  still  for  war."  That  my  own  exhibi- 
tion was  a  sorry  affair  may  be  readily  admitted ;  but  what  are  we  to 
think  of  the  sedate,  the  peaceful  and  benignant  Irving,  whose  bellicose 
propensities  have  never  yet  been  developed,  and  whose  organ  of  com- 
bativeness  no  phrenologist  has  yet  discovered,  selected  to  appear 
before  a  large  assemblage  to  display  the  heroic  impulses  of  a  son  of 
Mars !  Time,  however,  has  proved  the  futility  of  the  instruction  and 
the  folly  of  the  instructor ;  and  Mr.  Irving,  while  he  smiles  in  secret 
at  the  discipline  of  his  school-boy  days,  may  rest  satisfied  that  he 
wears  a  chaplet  of  greater  lustre  and  more  lasting  glory  than  ever 
adorned  the  warrior's  brow. 

Life,  physical  and  mental,  is  the  result  of  association ;  we  are 
portions  of  all  around  us.  The  harmony  of  the  physiological 
organization  preserves  the  one ;  the  intellectual  stores  received  by 
perception  sustain  the  other.  By  association,  the  cerebral  fiicultics 
become  more  capacious  and  of  wider  grasp,  and  judgment  enlarges 
her  sphere  and  acts  with  greater  wisdom  and  justice.  I  would 
that  truths  founded  on  such  a  basis  were  more  generally  recog- 
nized, and  that  opinions  and  decisions  were  made  on  such  organic 
principles.     Association,  not  segregation,  is  the  ladder  we  ascend,  thf? 


]72  THE    ATLAKTIC    SOCVE.VIR. 

better  to  have  a  true  view  of  what  we  take  cognizance  of.  The  rule 
applies  equally  to  things,  to  acts,  and  to  individuals.  I  know  my 
man,  I  make  a  right  estimate,  when  I  comprehend  not  merely  what 
he  accomplished,  but  the  circumstances  in  which  he  moved  and  acted, 
the  obstacles  overcome,  the  incidents  which  favored  his  designs. 
Every  body  knows  that  there  never  flourished,  within  our  precincts, 
a  more  beautiful  wood  than  that  which  ornamented  Hoboken  and 
Weehawken.  It  has  been  famous  in  prose  and  in  song ;  but  when 
we  are  told  that  within  that  forest,  in  its  best  estate,  Kalm,  the  bota- 
nist of  Abo,  enriched  the  species  plantarum  of  Linnaeus ;  that  here  the 
enthusiastic  Masson  discovered  new  plants  of  interesting  character  and 
properties ;  that  Volney  here  at  times  luxuriated  while  in  philosophi- 
cal contemplation ;  that  here,  amidst  these  beautiful  and  majestic 
trees,  Michaux  the  younger  composed  some  portions  of  his  American 
Flora ;  that  Pursh  added  to  his  great  botanical  treasures  from  these 
woods,  as  did  also  the  unfortunate  Douglass;  that  in  these  walks 
Irving  and  Paulding  and  Verplanck,  in  their  earlier  days,  cherished 
those  sympathies  with  nature  which  give  vitality  to  their  descriptive 
powers;  that  here  the  ornithologist,  Wilson,  and  his  successor,  Audu- 
bon, passed  many  of  the  choicest  hours  of  their  pilgrimage  of  life ; 
that  here  Cooke,  the  tragedian,  after  undue  excitement,  found  allevia- 
tion of  sorrow,  and  Matthews,  the  comedian,  a  solace  for  grievous 
melancholy  ;  that  the  soil  of  Hoboken  yielded  to  Bruce  the  magnesian 
lime-stone,  a  product  most  precious  in  a  mineralogical  cabinet ;  that 
here  the  elder  Stevens  made  experiments,  the  first  in  either  hemi- 
sphere, in  demonstration  of  the  practicability  of  railroad  communica- 
tion ;  and  more,  when  we  find  that  our  congenial  Halleck  has 
enlisted  his  poetic  gifts  in  laudation  o(  this  captivating  spot,  our 
gratification  swells,  every  tree  seems  clothed  with  richer  verdure,  and 
becomes  sacred  to  our  feelings.  I  walk  through  these  shady  groves 
with  emotions  enhanced  an  hundred-fold  by  such  associations,  and 
consider  how  many  rich  minds  have  surveyed  them,  and  what  trea- 
sures they  have  yielded  to  the  philosophical  and  rational  pursuits  of 
the  disciples  of  knowledge. 

But,  passing  from  these  general  reflections  on  the  prolific  subject 
of  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  under  extreme  diflioulties,  and  the 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    COLLES.  113 

accomplishment  of  great  deeds  under  adverse  circumstances,  1  hasten 
to  notice,  though  briefly,  an  individual  who  long  bore  a  conspicu- 
ous part  in  the  affairs  of  our  active  population,  and  whose  life  and 
trials  may  be  set  forth  as  an  instructive  instance  of  personal  warfare 
against  conflicting  elements.     I  allude  to 

Christopher  Colles. 

There  must  still  be  among  us  some  few  old  Knickerbockers,  whose 
recollections  of  some  thirty-five  years  ago  may  bring  him  before  them. 
The  young  men  of  the  present  day  may  have  heard  their  fathers  talk 
of  the  little  weather-beaten  old  man,  small  in  stature,  and  attenuated 
m  frame,  of  weight  some  one  hundred  and  ten  pounds  avoirdupois,  who 
existed  by  his  telegraph  on  the  Government-House  at  the  Bowling- 
Green,  and  his  telescope  in  the  Park. 

Colles  was  by  birth  an  Irishman,  and,  losing  his  parents  when 
quite  young,  accident  placed  him  under  the  care  of  the  renowned  Kich- 
ard  Pococke,  the  oriental  traveller,  and  afterward  Bishop  of  Ossory. 
The  pursuits  of  Pococke  led  the  mind  of  his  adopted  student  to  phy- 
sical investigation,  and,  it  would  appear,  that  to  considerable  attain- 
ments in  languages  he  added  a  fair  acquaintance  with  mathematics, 
mineralogy,  climate,  antiquities,  and  geographical  science.  Shortly 
after  the  death  of  his  patron,  in  1765,  inspired  with  the  travelling  pro  • 
pensities  of  his  instructor,  he  set  out  a  wanderer  from  his  native  land, 
and  we  find  him  about  the  year  1772  engaged  here  in  delivering  a 
series  of  lectures  on  the  subject  of  lock  navigation.  He  was  the  first 
person  who  suggested  canals,  and  improvements  on  the  Ontario  route. 
In  November,  1784,  according  to  the  records  of  the  Assembly,  he  pre- 
sented a  memorial  on  the  subject,  and,  in  April  following,  a  favorable 
report  was  had  thereon.  Colles  visited  the  country,  and  took  an 
actual  survey  of  the  principal  obstructions  upon  the  Mohawk  river  as 
far  as  Wood  Creek.  He  published  the  results  of  his  tour  in  a  pamph- 
let from  the  press  of  S.  Loudon,  1785.  "  The  amazing  extent  of  the 
five  great  lakes,"  says  Colles,  "  to  which  the  proposed  navigation  will 
communicate,  will  be  found  to  have  five  times  as  much  coast  as  all 
England ;  and  the  countries  watered  by  the  numerous  rivers  which 


174  THE   ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

fall  into  these  lakes,  full  seven  or  eight  times  as  great  as  that  valu 
able  island." 

In  an  article  on  the  "  Water  Chronology  of  the  City  of  New- 
York,"  published  in  that  valuable  repository,  the  Corporation  Manual 
of  Mr.  Valentine  for  1854,  the  services  of  Mr.  Colles  are  duly  noticed 
by  the  vrriter,  Theodore  R.  De  Forest.  Colles,  in  1774,  proposed  the 
construction  of  a  reservoir  and  other  works,  between  Pearl  and  White 
streets,  in  this  city,  and  to  answer  that  end,  the  expense  was  to  be 
defrayed  by  issuing  redeemable  paper  money.  The  war  of  the  revo- 
lution arrested  the  undertaking,  yet  in  1778  the  people  petitioned  that 
Colles'  plan  might  be  carried  out.  In  1797,  we  find  his  name  among 
the  applicants  for  a  contract  to  convey  water  through  the  city  by 
means  of  pipes.  This  was  about  the  time  that  Dr.  Brown  associated 
himself  with  the  Manhattan  Company,  in  order  to  procure  for  the  city 
a  proper  supply  of  pure  and  wholesome  water.  Dr.  Brown  recom- 
mended to  the  Common  Council  the  Bronx  river  for  that  purpose ; 
and  this,  it  is  affirmed,  is  the  first  indication  on  record  that  a  supply 
from  without  the  city  was  to  be  looked  for.  I  believe  that  Colles 
made  the  original  suggestion  to  Brown. 

Through  the  kindness  of  a  Knickerbocker  friend,  G.  B.  Rapelye,  I 
have  before  me  an  elaborate  pamphlet  written  by  Colles,  and  pub 
lished  in  New- York  in  1808,  on  the  interests  of  the  United  States  of 
America,  extending  to  all  conditions  of  men,  by  means  of  inland 
navigable  communications.  He  calls  his  plan,  the  Timber  Canal,  rea- 
dier and  more  feasible  to  make,  and  far  cheaper.  These  several  tracts 
show  the  devotion  and  abilities  of  Colles,  at  a  time  when,  in  our  coun- 
try, few  indeed  were  qualified  to  enter  as  competitors  in  his  design. 

These  several  projects  of  public  improvement  gave  to  Colles  occu- 
pation congenial  to  his  habits  of  study,  though  they  resulted  in  but 
trifling  pecuniary  returns.  His  modesty  and  unassuming  character 
were  little  calculated  to  force  him  within  the  channels  of  profitable 
occupation;  yet  he  filled  up  what  leisure  he  had  with  mathe- 
matics, hydraulics,  and  kindred  studies.  He  was  among  the  first, 
if  not  th»!  very  first  individual  who  commenced  itinerant  public 
instruction.  He  practised  land-surveying,  and  taught  it  in  lectures  in 
different  parts  of  this  State  and  elsewhere.     He  lectured  on  eleo- 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    C0LLE8.  175 

tricity,  though  I  do  not  know  that,  like  Franklin,  ho  made  his  own 
electrical  machine,  in  this  city.*  Mineralogy  and  manures,  mesmerism 
and  mathematics  were  also  topics  of  his  public  discourses.  The  expo- 
sitions of  the  orrery  of  Rittenhouse  doubtless  often  aided  to  enlarge 
his  audiences  in  those  days.  My  old  friend.  President  King,  might 
have  said  more  of  him  in  his  Memoir  on  the  Croton  Aqueduct. 

As  there  were  periods  when  he  could  not  study,  and  hours  when 
he  could  not  lecture,  the  propensities  of  his  old  master  roused  him  to 
new  efforts  as  a  traveller.  He  wandered  through  divers  parts  of 
Pennsylvania  and  this  State,  until  he,  by  personal  examinations  and 
calculations,  prepared  a  Book  of  Roads  for  New- York,  which  he  pub- 
lished in  1789.  I  never  heard  from  his  lips  any  lamentations  on  his 
travels,  or  his  gastric  sufferings,  such  as  old  Mrs.  Knight  has  recorded 
in  her  Tour  through  the  Wilderness  from  Hartford  to  New- York, 
made  some  time  before.  Colles  was  a  genuine  philosopher ;  he  had 
studied  the  Salernian  precepts,  and  could  practically  declare  that  a 
bit  in  the  morning  was  better  than  nothing  all  day. 

Upon  his  final  settlement  in  New- York,  he  at  first  lived  by  mak- 
ing band-boxes :  whether  his  mathematics  gave  them  more  symmetry 
and  grace,  there  is  no  one  left  to  tell  us.  His  support  from  this 
source  was  precarious,  and  other  appliances  were  at  work,  in  the 
manufacture  of  Prussian  blue  and  other  pigments.  George  Barou 
commenced  the  Mathematical  Correspondent,  the  first  publication 
of  that  sort  in  the  Union,  and  similar  in  its  intentions  to  the  work  of 
Dr.  Hutton.  Baron  was  an  English  radical ;  and  Colles,  with  a  spice 
of  democracy  in  him,  must  have  found  politics  and  mathematics  and 
the  social  habits  of  Baron  an  occasional  relief  from  his  weightier 
cares.  The  almanac-makers  at  fiiult,  Colles  supplied  their  deficiencies 
in  astronomical  calculations;  and  he  added  to  these  avocations  the 
collecting  and  arranging  of  opossum  and  beaver-skins,  Indian  vases 
and  tomahawks,  and  other  objects  of  curiosity  with  which  he  became 
familiar  during  his  extensive  western  tours  through  the  Mohawk 
country,  and  his  interviews  with  the  chiefs  of  Oneida  Castle.  He 
found  a  congenial  friend  in  Gardiner  Baker,  who  was  then  engaged  in 

*  Colden  Correspondence,  when  I  examined  it  In  ISIO. 


17  C)  THE    ATLAKTIC    SOrVEXIR. 

fitting  up  a  cabinet  of  native  curiosities  for  the  Tammany  Society, 
recently  organized  for  the  promotion  of  natural  science  and  American 
antiquities,  the  Grand  Sachem  of  which  was  William  Pitt  Smith, 
M.D.,  the  author  of  the  Letters  of  Amyntor. 

A  windfall  seems  to  occur  once  in  the  life  of  every  individual,  and 
so  it  happened  to  Colics.  The  Constitution  of  the  United  States  being 
adopted,  and  the  duties  on  spirits  established  by  Congress,  both  the 
hydrostatics  and  chemistry  of  Colles  were  called  into  requisition,  and  he 
was  appointed  to  test  the  specific  gravity  of  imported  liquors.  From 
the  scarcity  of  the  article,  he  turned  his  artistic  skill  to  the  making  of 
proof-glasses — another  source  of  profit  to  him.  But  this  period  of 
advantageous  business  had  its  end ;  and,  in  his  study  of  new  things,  he 
projected  his  telegraph,  which  enabled  him  to  meet  his  most  pressing 
wants,  in  his  again  straitened  condition.  The  American  Academy  of 
Fine  Arts  was  now  instituted,  with  Edward  Livingston  as  its  presi- 
dent ;  and,  enriched  with  the  Napoleon  presents  and  Chancellor  Liv- 
ingston's rich  gifts,  needed  a  superintendent  to  watch  over  the  beauti- 
ful sculptures  which  it  possessed.  John  Pintard,  his  ever-constant 
friend,  secured  the  trust  for  Colles,  and  we  now  find  our  ubiquitous 
philosopher  in  good  quarters  and  in  wholesome  employment.  Tlie 
fondest  mother  never  regarded  with  greater  care  her  first-born  than 
Colles  watched  over  the  Venus  of  the  Bath.  He  had  leisure  now  to 
drive  another  business,  and  perhaps  the  luckiest  of  his  scientific  hits 
was  the  application  he  made  of  his  telescope  and  microscope.  The 
casual  pittance  of  a  six-penny  piece  for  a  look  at  Venus,  or  the  circu- 
lation, through  the  web  of  a  frog's  foot,  with  his  exegetical  remarks, 
proved  adequate  to  his  now  fullest  desires.  "What  a  contrast  of  con- 
dition in  life  was  Colles  in  New- York,  with  his  old  master,  the  affluent 
Dolland,  of  London,  with  whom  he  had  worked  at  achromatic  lenses! 
It  was  not  always  a  clear  atmosphere  for  Colles'  apparatus,  but  a 
brilliant  night  or  a  cloudless  day  added  to  his  receipts ;  and  the  fuller 
contents  of  his  l)asket,  and  the  larger  size  of  his  head  of  cabbage,  as 
he  returned  from  market,  were  diagnostic  of  the  results  of  the  pre- 
ceding twenty-four  hours. 

While  Colles  was  thus  striving  for  the  means  of  his  daily  exist- 
ence, he  was  aided  by  a  residence  in  the  Government-House,  whither 


KEMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    COLLES.  Itl 

the  Academy  of  Arts  had  been  removed.  Nor  was  lie  wholly  over- 
looked by  prominent  characters.  His  acquisitions  were  known  by 
many  to  be  extensive  if  not  profomid ;  his  industry  through  a  long 
life  knew  no  idle  hour ;  his  talents  were  admitted  to  be  above  the 
ordinary  standard ;  his  plans  were  sometimes  pronounced  visionary, 
but  his  conversation  was  instructive,  and  his  genius  in  mechanics  suffi- 
ciently original  to  command  approbation.  His  nature  was  benevo- 
lent :  his  morals  void  of  offence  toward  God  and  man.  He  was  the 
advocate  of  an  enlarged  toleration  in  political  as  well  as  in  religious 
opinion ;  and  cordially  as  well  as  practically  adopted  the  sentiment  of 
Jeremy  Taylor,  "The  way  to  judge  of  religion  is  by  doing  our  duty  ; 
and  theology  is  rather  a  divine  life  than  a  divine  knowledge."  It  was 
his  constant  aim  to  be  useful.  If  his  occupation  was  not  always  ele- 
vated, he  was  too  frequently  the  victim  of  controlling  circumstances. 
He  knew  Poor  Richard  by  heart,  yet  he  overlooked  his  aphorism, 
"  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire,"  and  was  wont  to  substitute,  in 
justification  of  his  numerous  transitions  in  life,  the  maxim,  "  A  nim- 
ble sixpence  is  better  than  a  sluggish  shilling."  Many  paid  deference 
to  him  amid  all  his  disappointments.  De  Witt  Clinton  included 
him  among  the  prominent  promoters  of  internal  improvement,  and 
with  philosophical  liberality,  uttered  this  noble  sentiment  in  reference 
to  Colles  as  well  as  others :  "  For  the  good  which  has  been  done  by 
individuals  or  communities  in  relation  to  the  work,  let  each  have  a 
due  share  of  credit."  Dr.  Mitchill  often  visited  him  and  lauded  his 
services  in  the  advancement  of  public  works.  Jarvis,  the  painter,  pro- 
nounced him  a  genius,  and  painted  his  portrait  with  great  fidelity. 
*'  My  pencil,"  said  Jarvis,  "  will  render  you  hereafter  better  known : 
you  have  done  too  much  good  to  be  forgotten."  The  picture  is,  or 
ought  to  be,  in  the  Historical  Society.  Dr.  Hosack  commemorated 
him,  in  his  Life  of  Clinton,  as  an  early  pioneer  in  behalf  of  the  canal 
policy  of  New- York,  and  caused  an  engraving  of  his  portrait  to  occupy 
a  niche  on  the  column  of  his  canal  worthies.  Senator  Seward  has  not 
overlooked  him  in  his  elaborate  introduction  to  the  Natural  History 
of  New- York.  Trumbull,  the  historical  painter,  often  cheered  him 
onward,  and  bid  him  hope,  for  on  that  article  he  himself  had  long  lived. 

Nor  was  that  genuine  Knickerbocker,  G.  C.  Verplanck,  indifferent  to 

12 


178  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

his  condition,  nor  backward  in  suggestions.  In  the  great  celebration 
which  took  place  in  this  city  in  November,  1825,  when  the  waters  of 
Erie  united  with  the  Atlantic,  the  effigy  of  Colles  was  borne  with 
appropriate  dignity  among  the  emblems  of  that  vast  procession.  But 
to  Jolm  Pintard  was  Colles  most  indebted,  many  years,  for  nume- 
rous acts  of  beneficence  and  for  his  bounty  in  greatest  need.  As 
through  his  whole  life  of  four-score  years  he  had  always  more  ideas  in 
his  brain  than  pennies  in  his  pocket,  he  must  have  proved  something 
more  than  an  occasional  customer. 

As  Colics  was  an  instructive  representative  of  much  of  that 
peculiarity  in  the  condition  and  affairs  of  New- York  at  the  time  in 
which  he  may  be  said  to  have  flourished,  I  shall  trespass  a  moment, 
by  a  brief  exhibit  of  the  circumstances  which  marked  the  period  in 
which  he  was  upon  the  whole  a  prominent  character.  Every  body 
seemed  to  know  him ;  no  one  spoke  disparagingly  of  him.  His  enthu- 
siasm, his  restlessness  were  familiar  to  the  citizens  at  large.  lie,  in 
short,  was  a  part  of  our  domestic  history,  and  an  extra  word  or  two 
may  be  tolerated  the  better  to  give  him  his  fiiir  proportions.  Had  I 
encountered  Colles  in  any  land,  I  would  have  been  willing  to  have 
naturalized  him  to  our  soil  and  institutions.  lie  had  virtues,  the 
exercise  of  which  must  prove  profitable  to  any  people.  The  biogra- 
pher of  Chaucer  has  seen  fit,  inasmuch  as  his  hero  was  born  in  Lon- 
don, to  give  us  a  history  and  description  of  that  city  at  the  time  of 
Chaucer's  birth,  as  a  suitable  introduction  to  his  work.  I  shall 
attempt  no  such  task,  nor  shall  I  endeavor  to  make  Colles  a  hero, 
much  as  I  desire  to  swell  his  dimensions,  I  shall  circumscribe  him  to 
a  chap-book ;  he  might  be  distended  to  a  quarto.  Yet  the  ardent  and 
untiring  man  was  so  connected  with  divers  affairs,  even  after  he  had 
domesticated  himself  among  us,  that  the  every  movement  in  which  he 
took  a  part  must  have  had  a  salutary  influence  on  the  masses  of  those 
days.  lie  was  a  lover  of  nature,  and  our  village  city  of  that  time 
gave  him  a  fair  opportunity  of  recreation  among  the  lordly  plane,  and 
elm,  and  catalpa  trees  of  AVall-street,  Broadway,  Pearl-stroet,  and  the 
Bowery.  The  bcautifpl  groves  about  Richmond  Hill  and  Lispenara 
Meadows,  and  old  Vauxhall,  mitii^atod  the  dullness  incidnit  to  his  con- 
tinuous toil.     A  trip  to  the  scattered  residences  of  Brooklyn  awakened 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    COLLES.  179 

iniral  associations  ;  a  sail  to  Communipaw  gave  him  the  opportunity 

of  studying  marls  and  the  bivalves.  That  divine  principle  of  celestial 
origin,  religious  toleration,  seems  to  have  had  a  strong  hold  on  the 
people  of  that  day ;  and  the  persecuted  Priestley,  shortly  after  he 
reached  our  shores,  held  forth  in  the  old  Presbyterian  Church  in  Wall- 
street,  doubtless  favored  in  a  measure  by  the  friendship  of  old  Dr. 
Rodgers,  a  convert  to  AVhitefield,  and  a  pupil  of  Witherspoon.  This 
fact  I  received  from  John  Pintard.  Livingston  and  Rodgers,  Moore 
and  Provoost  supplied  the  best  Christian  dietetics  his  panting  desires 
needed ;  while  in  the  persons  of  Bayley  and  Kissam,  and  Hosack 
and  Post  he  felt  secure  from  the  misery  of  dislocations  and  fractures, 
and  that  alarming  pest,  the  yellow  fever.  lie  saw  the  bar  occupied 
with  such  advocates  as  Hamilton  and  Burr,  Hoffmann  and  Colden, 
and  he  dreaded  neither  the  assaults  of  the  lawless,  nor  the  chicanery 
of  contractors.  The  old  Tontine  gave  him  more  daily  news  than  he 
had  time  to  digest,  and  the  Argus  and  Minerva,  Freaeau's  Time-Piece 
and  Sword's  Xew-York  Magazine  inspired  him  with  increased  zeal 
for  liberty  and  a  fondness  for  belles-letters.  The  City  Library  had, 
even  at  that  early  day,  the  same  tenacity  of  purpose  which  marks  its 
career  at  the  present  hour.  There  were  literary  warehouses  ui 
abundance.  Judah  had  decorated  his  with  the  portrait  of  Paine,  and 
here  Colles  might  study  Common  Sense  and  the  Rights  of  !NLau,  or  he 
might  stroll  to  the  store  of  Duyckinck,  the  patron  of  books  of  piety, 
works  on  education,  and  Noah  Webster ;  or  join  tete-a-tete  with  old 
Hugh  Gaine  or  James  Rivington  and  Philip  Freneau ;  now  all  in 
harmony,  notwithstanding  the  withering  satire  against  those  accommo- 
dating old  tories  by  the  great  bard  of  the  revolutionary  crisis. 

The  infantile  intellect  of  those  days  was  enlarged  with  Humpty- 
Dumpty  and   Hi-diddle-diddle.*     Shop-windows    were   stored   with 

*  We  have  books  -without  end  concerning  the  origin  of  nations  and  races,  while  these  mental 
Instructors  of  a  people  have  been  favored  with  scarcely  a  pamphlet  in  vindication  of  their  claims  to 
our  consideration.  I  have  inserted  below  the  two  best  Latin  versions  descriptive  of  their  trials  and 
mishaps.  They  have  been  too  long  the  schoolmasters  of  early  thought  to  be  longer  overlooked. 
Why  do  not  our  scholars  ferret  out  their  birth-place,  whether  pigh  Dutch  or  Low  Dutch,  with 
more  satisfaction,  instead  of  referring  us  to  the  drama  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  the  Bodleian 
Library  ?  Would  the  t.isk  prove  unworthy  of  the  learning  of  the  distinguished  toficher  of  German, 
Professor  Schmidt,  of  Col'imibia  College?  Hcmie'        '       ''le  inquiry  a  pash'ire  from  the  cares  of  b'a 


180  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

portraits  of  Paul  Jones  and  Truxton,  and  the  musical  sentiment  broke 
forth  in  ejaculations  of  Tally  Ho !  and  old  Towler  in  one  part  of  the 
town,  and,  in  softer  accents,  with  Rousseau's  Dream  in  another.  Here 
and  there,  too,  might  be  found  a  coterie  gratified  with  the  crescendo 
and  diminuendo  of  Signer  Trazetta;  nearly  thirty  years  elapsed 
from  this  period  ere  the  arrival  of  the  Garcia  troupe,  through  the  efforts 
of  our  lamented  Ahnay'iva,,  Dojni nick  Lynch,  the  nonpareil  of  society, 
when  the  Italian  opera,  with  its  unrivalled  claims,  burst  forth  from 
the  enchanting  voice  of  that  marvellous  company.  The  years  1705- 
1800  were  unquestionably  the  period  in  which  the  treasures  of  the 
German  mind  were  first  developed  in  this  city  by  our  exotic  and  indi- 
genous wTiters.  That  learned  orientalist.  Dr.  Kunze,  now  com- 
menced the  translations  into  English  of  the  German  Hymns,  and 
Strebeck  and  Milledolar  gave  us  the  Catechism  of  the  Lutherans. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Will,  Charles  Smith,  and  William  Dimlap  now  sup- 
plied novelties  from  the  German  dramatic  school,  and  Kotzcbue  and 
Schiller  were  found  on  that  stage  where  Shakespeare  had  made  hia 
first  appearance  in  the  new  world  in  1752.  Colles  had  other  mental 
resources,  as  the  gayeties  and  gravities  of  life  were  dominant  with 
him.  The  city  was  the  home  of  many  noble  spirits  of  the  Revolu- 
tion :  General  Stevens,  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party,  was  here,  full  of 
anecdote.  Fish,  of  Yorktown  celebrity,  and  Gates  of  Saratoga, 
always  accessible. 

There  existed  in  New- York,  about  these  times,  a  war  of  opinion 
which  seized  even  the  medical  fiiculty.     The  Bastile  had  been  taken. 

collegiate  life.  Notwithstanding  Porson's  labors,  "  What's  Hecuba  to  me  or  I  to  Hecuba f  Is  tbo 
oxclamatioD  of  many  a  youtli  whoso  formative  dcveloiunont  sprung  ft-om  Hutnplus  Duniplus. 

lIUMTius  In  muro  requicvlt  Duuitius  alto; 
Ilumtiiis  e  mufoDumtUis  heii  ccciJlt! 
Si-d  non  regis  cqul,  rcglnio  cscrcltus  omnls, 
lliiinti,  to,  Dumtl,  rcstltuero  loco ! 

Hei  dldiilum!  atqiie  Itcruindlduhim!  fellsqne  flde«<)ue, 
Vaccn  super  lunro  cornua  prosllult : 
Noscio  qua  catulus  rlslt  dulcedino  hidl; 
Alstullt  ct  turjil  liiux  cochleare  fiigiu 

A  like  obccurlty  hangs  over  Jacxey  IIokneb.    After  all  that  has  boon  snid,  wc  know  not  mort 
acctimtoly  of  his  nativity  than  we  do  of  the  site  of  tha*  tnclent  city,  old  Troy. 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    COLLES.  181 

French  speculations  looked  captivating,  and  Genet's  movements  won 
admiration,  even  with  grave  men.  In  common  with  others,  our  school- 
masters  partook  of  the  prevailing  mania:  the  tricolored  cockade 
was  worn  by  numerous  school-boys,  as  well  as  by  their  seniors.  The 
yellow  fever  was  wasting  the  population ;  but  the  patriotic  fervor, 
either  for  French  or  English  politics,  glowed  with  ardor.  With  other 
boys  I  united  in  the  enthusiasm.  The  Carminole  was  heard  every- 
where. I  give  a  verse  of  a  popular  song  echoed  throughout  the  streets 
of  our  city,  and  heard  at  the  Belvidere  at  that  period : 

"America,  that  lovely  nation, 

Once  was  bound,  but  now  is  free ;  ^ 

She  broke  her  chaui,  for  to  maintain 
The  rights  and  cause  of  liberty." 

Strains  like  this  of  the  Columbian  bards  in  those  days  of  party 
virulence  emancipated  the  feelings  of  many  a  throbbing  breast,  even 
as  now  the  songs,  of  pregnant  simplicity  and  affluent  tenderness,  bj 
Morris,  afford  delight  to  a  community  pervaded  by  a  calmer  spirit, 
and  controlled  by  a  loftier  refinement.  Moreover,  we  are  to  remem- 
ber that  in  that  early  age  of  the  Republic  an  author,  and  above  2,11  a 
poet,  was  not  an  every-day  article.  True,  old  Dr.  Smith,  once  a 
chemical  professor  in  King's  College,  surcharged  with  learning  and 
love,  who  found  Delias  and  Daphnes  everywhere,  might  be  seen  in 
the  public  ways,  with  his  madrigals  for  the  bcautifid  women  of  his 
select  acquaintance ;  but  the  buds  of  promise  of  the  younger  Low 
(of  a  poetic  family)  were  blighted  by  an  ornithological  error  : 

"  'T  is  morn,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  to  view, 
The  niglitingale  warbles  her  song  in  the  grove." 

Weems  had  not  yet  appeared   in  the  market,  with  his  Court  of 
Hymen ;  Clifton  was  pulmonary  ;  Wardell's  declaration 

"  To  the  tuneful  Apollo  I  now  mean  to  hollow !" 

Mras  annunciatory  —  and  nothing  more  ;  and  Searson,  exotic  by  birth, 
yet  domesticated  with  us,  having  made  vast  struggles  in  his  perilous 


182  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

journey  toward  Mount  Parnassus,  had  already  descended,  with  what 
feelings  is  left  to  conjecture,  by  the  poet's  closing  lines  of  his  Vale- 
dictory to  his  muse : 


'Poets,  like  grass-hoppers,  sing  till  they  die, 
Yet,  in  this  world,  some  laugh,  some  sing,  f 


some  cry.' 

The  Mohawk  reviewers,  as  John  Davis  called  the  then  critics  of 
our  city,  thought,  with  the  old  saying,  that  "  where  there  is  so  much 
smoke,  there  must  be  some  fire.''  But  it  is  no  longer  questionable, 
that  our  Castalian  font  was  often  dry,  and  when  otherwise,  its  stream 
was  rather  a  muddy  rivulet  than  a  spring  of  living  waters.  It  needs 
our  faithful  Lossing  to  clear  up  the  difficulties  of  that  doubtful  period 
of  patriotism  and  of  poetry. 

There  were  enough  enlightened  minds  and  generous  hearts  to 
recognize  the  merits  of  Colles.  lie  stood  before  the  community  as  a 
kind  of  miniature  edition  of  Count  Rumford.  Projectors,  with  new 
inventions,  sought  his  opinions.  Garnett,  of  New-Jersey,  a  clever 
man,  and  in  literary  communion  with  the  poet  Akenside,  conversed 
with  him  on  the  most  cfTective  impulse  secured  by  the  sails  of  the 
windmill.  Williamson  queried  him  on  the  electric  powers  of  the 
gymnotus ;  Blanchard,  the  aeronaut,  on  the  aeriform  currents  of  our 
atmosphere ;  and  Mitchill  unfolded  to  him  his  theory  of  septic  acid  and 
how  the  Python  produced  pestilence.  "When  Perkins  arrived  among 
us,  armed  with  his  tractors,  and  fortified  by  the  credentials  of  a  score 
of  bishops  and  other  dignitaries  of  the  Church  of  England,  in  behalf 
of  their  saving  efficacy,  Colles,  who  meddled  a  little  with  physic,  had 
nearly  been  entrapped  by  that  infamous  impostor,  who  assumed  the 
ability  to  cure  yellow  fever  by  his  metallic  points,  during  its  preva- 
lence in  1799.  The  death  of  Perkins  himself,  on  the  third  day  of 
his  illness,  by  the  epidemic,  while  in  full  use  of  his  remedial  agent, 
was  too  convincing  evidence  of  the  absurdity  of  his  means,  for  Colles 
longer  to  prosecute  inquiries  into  the  nature  of  the  tractors  and  their 
mesmeric  influence.  Yet  after  all  this  sort  of  Caleb  Quotem  occupa- 
tion, it  was  demonstrable  that  Colles,  in  feelings  or  in  thmights,  never 
dismounted  from  the  hobby  he  first  rode :  water  and  water-courses. 


REMINISCENCES    OF    CHRISTOPHER    COLLBS.  183 

canals  and  aqueducts,  were  ever  present  to  his  mind :  he  could  not 
visit  Spuytenduy vel  without  thinking  of  his  dear  Bronx ;  the  very 
flow  from  the  spout  of  his  tea-pot  advised  him  of  hydraulics  and  lock 
navigation. 

I  knew  Colles  well  for  a  long  period,  and  I,  in  my  way,  pro  re 
nata,  administered  to  him  an  occasional  dose.  On  the  old  principle 
that  misery  loves  company,  I  illustrated  to  him,  from  occurrences 
around  him,  that  genius  and  poverty  were  often  associates,  as  in  the 
case  of  Oliver  Evans,  and  told  him  what  Bard  had  long  ago  told  me, 
that  the  accomplished  architect  of  the  spire  of  our  venerable  church  of 
St.  Paul,  died  penniless,  and  in  a  hospital  —  but  what  has  now-a-days 
become  a  creed  in  some  brains,  that  like  cures  like,  had  no  altera^ 
tive  influence  in  the  present  instance.  Like  other  lovers  of  mathe- 
matics, he  was  fond  of  music,  and  versed  in  hymnology  :  he  revelled 
with  Toplady,  and  shed  tears  with  Newton.  When  oppressed 
with  inward  sorrows  he  read  Euler  and  Maclaurin,  and  occa- 
sionally, when  without  a  meal,  he  summoned  his  ideality  in  cal- 
culating the  safest  means  to  sustain  a  bank  currency.  Like  some 
political  economists  of  the  present  day,  he  favored  the  notion  that 
that  bank  was  safest  which  has  no  capital.  Colles  cherished  the  doc- 
trine of  signs,  which  he  derived,  I  believe,  from  Culpepper.  He  was 
wont  to  say  that  a  disastrous  star  presided  at  his  birth,  and  that  if  he 
had  been  brought  up  a  hatter,  the  people  would  have  come  into  the 
world  without  heads. 

Erom  this  inadequate  sketch  it  is  sufficiently  apparent  that  Colles 
pursued  knowledge  under  the  most  stubboi'n  difficulties  ;  that  through 
life  he  struggled  with  adverse  forces,  and  rarely  experienced  the  en- 
joyments of  existence.  His  death  took  place  in  the  fall  of  1821,  at  the 
advanced  age  of  eighty-four  years.  John  Pintard  and  myself  had  the 
honor  to  be  his  only  followers  to  the  grave.  The  Eev,  Dr.  Creighton 
(that  worthy  divine  who  recently  declined  a  bishopric)  officiated  on 
the  mournful  occasion.  He  lies  in  the  Episcopal  burial-ground  in 
Hudson  street,  but  no  mark  designates  the  spot.  Thus  much  of  Colles, 
and  thus  much  was  assuredly  due  to  the  memory  of  the  man  whose 
investigations  more  than  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago  promoted 
the  great  internal  policy  which  signalizes  New- York,  and  finally  ended 


184  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEMR. 

in  the  erection  of  that  immense  undertaking,  the  Croton  Aqueduct,  a 
demonstration  worthy  of  the  talents  and  renown  of  Major  Douglass. 
There  was  something  very  engaging  in  the  physiognomy  of  CoUes. 
He  was  naturally  cheerful  and  buoyant ;  at  times  pensive,  yet  free 
from  any  corrosive  melancholy.  His  ample  front,  his  sparse  white 
locks,  his  cavernous  gray  eyes,  with  that  weakness  which  often  marks 
old  age,  betokened  a  resigned  spirit.  To  see  him  on  an  early  morn- 
ing visit,  seated  at  liis  small  pine  table,  with  his  bowl  of  milk,  his  dry 
bread  and  potato,  offering  up  grace  for  the  bounties  he  was  favored 
with,  was  a  lesson  to  the  ungrateful  epicure,  of  edifying  influence. 
The  cheerfulness  and  mellowness  of  his  life  are  well  expressed  in  the 
words  of  Dyer,  on  another  occasion  : 


■  TuERE  is  a  mood, 


(I  sing  not  to  the  vacant  or  the  young,) 

There  is  a  kindly  mood  of  melancholy 

That  wings  the  soul  and  points  her  to  the  skies." 

If  to  his  great  and  varied  attainments  Colles  had  added  the  practi- 
cal functions  of  a  school-master,  or  had  he  been  more  fortunate  in  his 
fiscal  relations,  he  might  have  been  honored  with  the  highest  academic 
distinction  by  some  of  our  venerable  collegiate  institutions. 


5W^.%^vBy«'x 


Vrc^^2^^<^:^^^Z^^^^. 


f  0  a  SciuttiM  §irL 


GBOBGB  D.  PEBNTTOM, 


Beavtiful  girl  1  I  have  wandered  far 
Toward  the  rising  sun  and  the  evening  star; 
I  have  roamed  'mid  the  northern  wastes  of  snow 
And  strayed  where  the  soft  magnoUas  blow, 
But  I  never  gazed  on  a  face  so  bright 
As  thine,  sweet  spirit  of  young  delight 

Beautiful  girl !  thou  art  bright  and  fair 

As  an  angel  shape  in  the  moonlight  air; 

No  shadow  rests  on  thy  brow  of  snow, 

Save  that  of  thy  tresses  drooping  low. 

Love's  own  dear  light  is  wandering  oft 

O'er  thy  gentle  hp  of  carmine  soft. 

Thy  lovely  cheek,  where  the  rich,  red  glow 

Of  the  warm  blood  melts  through  the  virgin  snow 

Is  sweetly  blending  in  one  bright  dye, 

The  woven  beauties  of  earth  and  sky. 

Truth,  holy  truth,  in  its  freshness  dwells 

Deep,  deep  in  thy  dark  eyes'  shaded  wells. 

And  fancies  wild  from  their  clear  depths  gleam. 

Like  shadows  of  stars  from  a  trembling  stream ; 

And  thy  thoughts  are  a  dream  of  Eden's  bowers, 

And  thy  words  are  garlands  of  flowers,  bright  flowers. 

Beautiful  girl  1  I  have  seen  thee  move, 
A  floating  creature  of  joy  and  love. 
As  light  as  a  mist  on  the  sunrise  gale. 
Or  the  buoyant  sway  of  a  bridal  vail. 


186  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Till  I  almost  looked  to  see  thee  rise 

Like  a  soaring  thought  to  the  free  blue  skies, 

Or  melt  avray  in  the  thin,  blue  air, 

Like  a  vision  of  fancy  painted  there. 

Thy  low  sweet  voice,  as  it  thrills  around, 

Seems  less  a  sound  than  a  dream  of  sound ; 

Softly  and  wildly  its  clear  notes  sweU, 

Like  tlie  spirit-tones  of  a  silver  bell ; 

And  the  lips  whence  tlie  fairy  music  flows 

Is  to  Fancy's  eye  like  a  speaking  ros6 

I'eautiftil,  beautiful  girll  thou  art 
A  vision  of  joy  to  the  throbbing  heart ; 
A  star  sent  down  from  the  world  of  bliss, 
And  all  undimmed  by  the  shades  of  tliis,- 
A  rainbow  pictured  by  Love's  own  son 
On  the  clouds  of  being,  beautiful  one  I 

Beautiful  girl !  't  is  a  wear}'  year 

Since  thy  sweet  voice  full  on  my  ravished  car- 

'T  is  a  long,  long  year  of  light  and  gloom 

Since  I  gazed  on  thy  young  cheeks'  lovely  i):i)om; 

Yet  th)'  gentle  tones  of  music  still 

Through  the  holiest  depths  of  memorj'  thrill 

Like  tones  of  a  fount,  or  breeze,  or  bird, 

In  the  long-gone  years  of  childhood  heard. 

And  oft  in  my  do.rk  and  lonely  moods, 

"When  a  demon  wing  o'er  my  spirit  brood.s, 

Thine  image  seems  on  my  soul  to  break 

Like  the  sweet  young  moon  o'er  a  gloomy  lake, 

Filling  its  depths,  as  the  sliadows  flee, 

"With  beauty  and  love  and  melody. 

Beautiftil  girl !  thou  art  far  away, 

And  I  know  not  whore  thy  steps  now  stray  ; 

But  oh  I  't  is  sweet,  it  is  very  sweet, 

In  the  fairy  realms  of  dreams  to  greet 

Tiiy  cheek  of  ruse,  thy  brow  of  pearl. 

And  thy  voice  of  music,  beautiful  girl ' 


A      LIFE      WITH      ONE      PASSION. 

BY      DONALD      MAC      LEOD. 

Evert  body  who  knows  Dr.  T ,  in  a  friendly  way,  knows 

that  his  darling  study  is  Psychology  ;  and  this  has  always  interested 
me  exceedingly,  as  I  suppose  it  interests  every  artist.  Lately,  in  our 
conversations,  we  have  been  devoted,  he  as  master  and  I  as  scholar, 
to  the  observation  of  characters  formed  by  the  development  of  a  single 
passion,  as  avarice,  ambition,  love,  etc.  His  close,  analytical  mind 
finds  great  pleasure  in  following  and  noting  accurately  the  course  of 
such  a  development,  from  its  first  exterior  manifestation  to  its  result ; 
and  -he  holds  that  when  the  soul  is  once  fiirly  delivered  up  to  the 
dominance  of  a  single  passion,  the  principle  of  life  itself  becoiiies 
involved,  and  that  the  end  of  the  passion  is  only  at  the  end  of  mortal 
existence. 

His  anecdotes,  thoroughly  illustrative  of  his  theory,  are  many  and 
of  absorbing  interest ;  and  I  only  endeavor  to  repeat  one  here  because 
the  general  reader  is  never  likely  to  learn  it  from  him.  At  the 
same  time,  I  am  convinced  of  my  own  incapacity  to  analyze  like  him. 
I  will  tell  one  story,  however,  that  haunted  me  for  a  long  time,  and,  as 
I  am  not  a  physician,  but  only  a  story-teller,  I  shall  tell  it  in  my  own 
way. 

Tliere  is  a  young,  beautiful  woman,  sitting  among  pillows  and 
cushions  in  an  arm-chair,  by  an  open  window.  The  still  atmosphere 
is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  tube-roses,  jessamines,  heliotropes,  and 
other  flowers  of  like  powerful  odor,  which  have  always  been  her 


188  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

favorites.  Filled  as  the  air  is  with  these  rich  fragrances,  she  adds 
to  them  that  of  pastiles,  burning  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  her  hand- 
kerchief is  wet  with  extracts  of  violets.  Her  skin  is  white,  but  not 
transparent ;  it  reminds  you  most  of  cream-laid  note  paper.  Tlie  eyes 
are  lazy,  full,  and  the  color  of  the  double  English  violets.  The  hair 
is  blond,  an  ashy  Ijlond,  and  has  scarcely  a  wave  in  it ;  it  could  not  be 
made  to  curl,  but  lies  in  rich,  heavy,  almost  damp  bands,  about  the 
face.  Her  form,  though  delicate,  is  thoroughly  developed ;  the  flesh 
firm,  the  outlines  as  if  chiseled,  growing  thin  now,  except  the  throat 
and  bust,  and  the  hands  and  feet,  which  are  very  small,  but  rounded 
and  plump,  with  dimples  at  the  joints.  She  wears  a  pale  blue  silk 
robe  de  chambre,  opening  in  front  to  show  an  under-dress  of  white 
watered  silk.  On  the  table  beside  her  is  a  bottle  and  glass  of  heavy, 
rich  Portugal  wine,  pure  juice,  which  leaves  a  spoonful  of  sediment  in 
every  glass. 

Except  to  taste  this,  or  to  inhale  the  odors,  as  the  light  air  throws 
them  occasionally  through  the  window,  or  to  respire  the  violet  from 
the  handkerchief,  she  seldom  raises  her  head  from  where  it  reclines, 
thrown  back  upon  the  cushions,  in  which  position  she  looks  passion- 
ately and  dreamily  at  her  husband's  portrait,  which  hangs  upon  the 
wall  before  her. 

The  portrait  exhibits  a  man  of  twenty-six  or  seven,  somewha' 
sallow,  thin,  with  heavy,  wavy,  chestnut  hair,  and  large  brown  eyes 
not  -without  some  fierceness  in  them.  There  is  nothing  remarkablt 
about  the  face  except  the  intense  redness  of  the  lips  —  the  lady  has 
that  also  —  so  red  that  you  fancy  the  painter  a  bad  chooser  of  colors  ; 
yet  they  say  the  likeness  is  perfect. 

Tliose  are  all  the  accessories  which  need  be  mentioned.  Let  the 
lady  tell  her  ovm  story : 

My  fathor  died  before  my  birth;  my  mother  perished  in  bringing 
me,  her  only  child,  into  the  world.  They  left  me  a  large  fortune;  and 
my  guardians  were  well-bred,  very  ordinary,  every-day,  well-to-<lo 
people. 

The  first  thing  I  ever  loved,  except  strong  perfumes  and  flowers, 
was  a  bird,  an  English  bulfinch,  which  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of 


ANTEROS.  189 

me,  until  one  day,  when  I  was  about  twelve  or  thirteen,  it  flew  to  a 
young  girl  who  was  visiting  me,  and  refused  to  come  back  when  I 
called  it.     When  it  did  come,  at  last,  I  killed  it  in  my  hand. 

I  remember  my  nurse  very  well,  and  a  pretty  French  maid  who 
attended  me  afterward ;  but  I  do  n't  think  I  cared  much  about  either. 
I  do  n't  think  that  I  loved  any  thing  much  except  the  bird  that  1 
crushed  in  my  hand ;  at  least,  until  I  got  to  be  eighteen. 

I  was,  of  course,  as  is  the  case  generally  in  New- York,  taken  into 
society  quite  young — at  sixteen,  I  think — and  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  it. 
I  was  rich,  and  I  may  say  it  now,  beautiful,  so  that  I  did  not  lack 
suitors  who  professed  the  profoundest  devotion  for  me.  Some  of 
them  were  pleasant,  one  or  two  handsome  and  fascinating  men,  and  I 
often  wondered  at  the  existence  of  my  utter  indifference  for  them  all. 
By-and-by  I  won  the  reputation  of  a  cold,  unaffectionate^girl,  and  those 
who  were  really  worthy  began  to  leave  me  to  myself,  and  none 
remained  but  those  who  thought  only  of  my  fortune.  Cold  and 
unaffectionate !  Ah!  if  they  could  have  seen  the  ceaseless  agoi>ies  of 
tears  into  which  I  burst  in  my  own  room ;  if  they  could  have  seen 
my  arms  trying  to  wind  themselves  round  my  own  body,  or  felt  the 
thrills  and  yearnings  of  the  unknown  passion  that  convulsed  me  with 
its  power,  that  was  consuming  my  heart ! 

There  was  a  large  party  given  on  my  eighteenth  birth-day,  and  it 
took  its  usual  course.  I  have  forgotten  all  about  it  until,  about  the 
middle  of  it,  I  saw  a  young  man  standing  in  a  corner  looking  at  me. 
As  I  met  his  look  an  indescribable  thrill  passed  through  me,  and  I  felt 
flxint  for  a  moment.  My  impulse  was  to  rise  and  clasp  him  in  my 
arms.  He  haunted  me  and  frightened  me,  yet  I  felt  a  strange  desire 
to  get  near  him.  When  he  came,  at  last,  introduced  by  my  guardian 
as  Mr.  Mark  Winston,  I  had  scarcely  strength  or  self-possession  to 
bow.  He  asked  me  to  dance  and  I  refused,  I  know  not  why ;  I  never 
cared  for  that  amusement,  yet  I  had  never  refused  any  one  before. 
Then  he  sat  down  and  talked  to  me  a  little  while,  but  the  shrinking 
still  remained,  and  I  answered  I  know  not  how  or  what.  But  he 
dropped  a  glove  beside  me,  and  when  he  had  gone.  I  picked  it  up, 
and  put  it  into  my  bosom ;  and  when  I  was  alone,  I  knew  that  I  loved 
him,  and  that  that  love  was  my  life.     . 


190  TDE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEXIR. 

Mark  "Winston  was  a  Carolinian,  and  had  brought  no  letters  to  the 
North,  except  to  my  guardian,  so  that  our  house  was  almost  his  only 
visiting-place.  There  was  a  pleasant,  lively  girl,  niece  to  my  guar 
dian,  staying  with  us  then,  aiid  our  party  commonly  consisted  of  the 
old  peoi^le,  Jklark,  Mary  Lee,  and  myself.  The  spring  came  on  and 
passed  away,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  it,  we  went  to  a  country-seat  at 
New-Eochelle. 

Every  hour  my  passion  grew  stronger ;  every  hour  it  destroyed 
some  minor  characteristic  of  my  nature,  and  advanced  toward  its 
end,  the  absorption  of  all  my  nature  into  itself  Still  I  shunned  him. 
inexplicably  to  myself;  I  craved  to  be  near  him,  to  hear  him,  to 
watch  him,  to  touch  him  with  my  dress  in  passing;  but  when  he 
came  to  me,  a  positive  fear  wpuld  take  hold  on  me,  and  I  would  feel 
almost  ill.  I"  stole  from  him ;  stole  his  gloves,  his  handkerchief;  I 
would  have  done  any  act  of  meanness ;  I  have  picked  the  pockets  of 
his  coat  when  it  hung  in  the  hall.  Once,  noticing  that  the  ribbon  of 
his  watch  was  worn  out,  Mary  Lee  gave  him  another,  which  he  put 
on ;  and  in  doing  so,  he  broke  the  crystal  of  his  watch,  and  carried  it 
up  to  his  room.  But  for  this,  I  would  have  fainted,  or  else  sprung 
upon  her ;  but  tfiis  gave  me  a  gleam  of  light.  When  he  returned  to 
the  drawing-room,  I  went  up  stairs,  procured  another  ribbon,  and 
went  into  his  room.  I  took  her  ribbon  and  tore  it  to  pieces  with  my 
hands  and  teeth,  and  carried  it  out  and  stamped  it  into  the  black  soil 
of  the  garden  ;  but  that  wlych  he  had  worn  I  had  already  in  my 
bosom,  and  I  treasured  that  and  the  gloves  and  the  handkerchief,  and 
whatever  else  of  him  I  had,  and  kissed  them,  and  sat  looking  at  them 
in  my  lap,  and  slept  with  them  in  my  bosom  through  the  long  nights. 
Yet  for  all  this  I  could  get  no  nearer  to  him. 

At  last  I  thought  that  he  began  to  pay  his  addresses  to  :NLary  Lto, 
and  then  I  recognized  that  love  had  not  eaten  up  all  my  nature,  fur 
hate  and  rage  still  existed.  Oh !  what  weary,  weary  weeks  I  spent 
in  watching  them  !  ITow  softly  I  crawled  down  stairs !  How  stealth- 
ily I  stole  bihin.l  them  in  their  walks !  How  I  watched  thenj  con 
versing  in  the  drawing-room. 

On  Thursday,  the  seventh  of  .Time  — 1  had  bought  an  almanac, 
and  1  used  to  mark  the  days  on  which  1  sjiw  him  — on  Thursday,  the 


ANTER03.  191 

seventh  of  June,  I  saw  him  come  up  the  avenue,  and  heard  him  enter 
the  house.  He  did  not  mount  the  stairs,  but  passed  into  the  dra-sv- 
ing-room,  and  I  knew  that  Mary  Lee  was  there  alone.  I  went  to  my 
dressing-table,  and  swallowed  from  a  flafon  a  glass  of  Cologne-water. 
Then,  when  the  shudder  and  tremor  had  passed  over,  I  went  gently 
down,  and  saw  the  door  half  open.  The  door  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  room;  when  partially  open,  you  saw  a  huge  mirror,  which 
reflected  every  thing  in  the  room:  they  sat  behind  it.  Half-way 
down  the  stairs,  I  heard  his  voice,  soft,  low,  pleading,  tender :  God  ! 
how  long  had*this  been  going  on  1  My  satin  slippers  made  no  noise, 
and  I  reached  the  half  open  door  and  saw  them  in  the  glass  ;  he  with 
her  hand  in  his ;  I  watched  them  there  for  a  thousand  centuries ;  and 
I  heard  him  say,  "  Do,  dear  Mary  ;  do  promise  for  to-morrow ;"  and 
I  heard  her  answer,  in  a  timid,  gentle  voice,  which  seemed  to  me  full 
of  love,  "  No,  Mark,  I  dare  not." 

Again  he  plead  to  her,  and  then  —  my  eyes  upon  the  mirror  — 
then  he  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.     I  saw  him  do  it. 

I  struck  the  door  open  —  my  hand  was  black  for  two  weeks  — 
and  went  in  to  where  he  still  held  her  hand,  and  stood  before  them, 
and  struck  my  foot  upon  the  ground. 

Mary  Lee  ran  out  of  the  room. 

"So,"  I  said  to  Mark  Winston,  "you  come  here  for  that,  do 
youl" 

He  looked  at  me  amazedly. 

"You  even  must  be  base  and  dishonorable,  you  even  can  not 
respect  the  sanctity  of  a  friend's  house ;  and  you  call  yourself  gentle- 
man." 

He  grew  white,  a  kind  of  ashy  white ;  and  his  eyes  grew  three 
shades  darker,  and  burnt  like  living  coals  with  rage.  I  feared  him 
not,  and  said : 

"And  to  love  a  thing  like  Mary  Lee !" 

Then  the  fierceness  passed  instantly  from  his  eyes ;  and  a  flood  of 
unutterable  passion  flowed  —  I  saw  it  flow  —  into  them,  and  he  said  : 

"  I  was  begging  her  to  intercede  with  you,  Louise,  I  never  loved 
any  but  you.  But  you  are  so  cold,  so  unaflectionate,  so  incapable  of 
loving,  so " 


192  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEXIR. 

I  sank  down  upon  the  floor,  and  clasped  his  knees,  and  said, 
"  Mark,  I  love  you,  and  have  loved  you,  and  will  love  you  to  eter- 
nity." 

I  remember  my  sitting  upon  his  knees,  with  his  strong  arms,  like 
mighty  cords,  binding  my  bosom  upon  his.  And  then  came  that  wild 
rain  of  kisses,  of  consuming,  devouring  kisses,  on  my  hair  and  eyes 
and  forehead,  and  quicker  and  faster  on  my  lips  and  neck.  I  ftxinted 
in  his  arms,  on  his  convulsed  bosom  and  impassioned,  throbbing 
heart.  At  least  I  suppose  I  fainted,  for  I  remember  nothing  until  I 
found  myself  upon  a  sofa,  with  Mark  kneeling  at  my  fett,  holding  my 
hands  in  his,  and  his  tears  raining  hotly  upon  them,  faster  and  hotter 
than  his  kisses. 

We  were  married  on  the  fifteenth  of  September,  and  went  to  our 
home  immediately  —  a  nice  country-house  on  the  north  shore  of 
Long-Island  —  that  was  our  home. 

I  do  n't  remember  that  we  ever  read,  or  drew,  or  had  any  music, 
or  any  thing  else  of  that  kind.  I  remember  the  walks  in  the  forest  or 
on  the  shore,  and  the  flowers  that  he  was  fond  of,  and  the  perfumes 
he  liked  best,  and  the  love  that  both  of  us  had  for  the  heavy  lamp- 
shades, ground  simply  and  lined  with  rose-colored  tissue  paper. 

I  remember  that  I  never  before  had  taken  particular  care  of  my 
person,  except  what  is  natural  to  any  gentlewoman,  but  that  now  I 
bathed  twice  every  day,  and  studied  every  toilette,  chiefly  the  morn- 
ing and  the  night-dress,  and  used  no  perfume  but  tube-rose,  helio- 
trope, and  violet,  which  were  his  favorites,  and  lived  as  in  a  dream  — 
a  long,  may -be  a  bad,  wicked,  cruel,  passionate  dream. 

All  that  I  know  is,  that  I  was  separated  from  him,  and  the  physi 
ciuns  said  he  was  going  to  die ;  and  when  I  asked  to  see  him,  they 
said,  "  No ;  any  body  but  you."     lie  grew  worse  and  worse. 

They  had  forbidden  me  to  go  near  him.  My  presence  alone,  they 
said,  was  injurious  to  him.  They  would  not  answer  for  his  life,  if  I 
were  to  insist  on  seeing  him.  So  I  kept  away  in  my  own  chamber 
while  people  were  stirring  in  the  house ;  but,  in  the  early  morning, 
when  all  was  still,  I  used  to  creep  to  the  door  of  his  room,  and  crouch 
do\n\  there  and  think  of  him. 

Bv-and-lty  this  became  unendurable,  and    I    began  to   question 


ANTEROS.  193 

v.hethcr  that  colcl-]3rowed,  scientific,  quiet  man  had  a  right  to  keep  a 
wife  from  her  husband.  I  had  heard  so  often,  that,  for  a  point  of 
medical  interest,  any  point  new  or  curious  in  their  science,  they 
would  not  hesitate  to  destroy  fifty  lives  to  procure  an  elucidation,  I 
determined  at  least  to  see.     So  I  questioned  Mark's  nurse. 

"  Does  he  suffer  much,  nurse  f 

"  No,  Ma'am  ;  or,  at  least,  he  makes  no  complaint.  Only  just  lies 
there,  still  and  dreaming-like,  and  putting  out  his  arms,  and  then  fold- 
ing them  back  round  him  again." 

"  Is  he  out  of  his  mind  at  all  1" 

"  God  bless  you  !  no.  His  eyes  have  no  sparkle  in  them,  and  his 
voice  is  as  little  as  a  child's,  only  deeper,  like  the  church-organ,  you 
know,  Ma'am,  before  they  come  to  the  loud  part." 

"  But  does  he  forget  all  his  friends  ?" 

"He  never  speaks  about  them.  Ma'am,  although  the  doctor  i<) 
always  a-mentioning  them  to  him ;  but  while  they  talk  about  the7n,  h^ 
just  lies  there." 

"About  whom,  then,  does  he  talk?" 

"  O  Ma'am,  he  hardly  talks  at  all ;  only  lies  still,  except  hi? 
arms,  and  looks  always  like  he  was  thinking  of  somewhat ;  and  when 
he  does  speak,  he  never  says  but  just  only,  '  Louise,  Louise.'  " 

"  Does  he  say  '  Louise  V     That  is  my  name." 

"  Why,  bless  you.  Ma'am,  he  never  speaks  nor  thinks  of  any  body 
but  you.  He  calls  always  for  you,  and  then,  after  he  calls  awhile,  he 
seems  to  think  as  you  have  come,  and  he  folds  his  arms  in  so  — " 
here  the  nurse  imitated  the  motion ;  "  not  folding  them  up  as  the  gen- 
tlemen do,  but  kind  of  looking  as  if  he  were  folding  something  else 
up  mto  them ;  and  then  he  keeps  a-saying  '  Louise,  Louise,'  in  a  little, 
low,  soft  voice,  and  by-and-by  he  falls  asleep." 

A  new  idea  flashed  upon  me.     Said  I : 

"  Nurse,  dear,  they,  the  doctors,  won't  allow  me  to  see  him ;  are 
they  cross  with  you  1  Let  me  see :  how  long  have  you  been  watching 
him  1" 

"  Three  nights  now,  Ma'am,  on  a  stretch ;  but  if  I  was  ever  so 
tired,  Ma'am,  I  could  n't  let  you  go  in." 

13 


194  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

'•  Oh !  yes,  I  know  that ;  but  I  want  him  well  watched,  and  1  am 
ufraiJ  that  they  don't  take  care  of  you," 

"  Oh !  yes,  Ma'am,  I  get  plenty  to  c'at,  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Ma'am,  I  have  always  been  used  to  a  little  drop  of  wine,  and  I  haven't 
had  none." 

'•  Well,  nurse,  I  will  bring  you  some  into  the  little  dining-room, 
and  will  call  you  when  he  gets  asleep.     Now  go  in  and  watch  him." 

She  went  into  Mai'k's  room,  and  I  went  to  the  sideboard,  Mhere  I 
found  several  decanters  full.  I  chose  a  small  one,  in  order  that  she 
might  drink  it  all.  But  first,  I  took  it  up  to  my  own  room,  and  put 
some  laudanum  in  it ;  and  then  I  got  some  dry  biscuit  and  anchovy 
sauce  to  increase  her  thirst,  and  took  it  into  the  little  dining-room. 

It  was  nearl}-  eleven  then,  and  I  undressed  myself,  but  did  not  go 
to  bed.  I  thought  constantly  of  Mark,  and  I  put  on  the  pale-blue 
dressing-gown,  in  which  he  used  to  admire  me,  and  I  let  the  bands  of 
my  hair,  which  were  very  thick  and  heavy,  fall  down  about  my  neck  ; 
and  then  I  sat  down  before  the  clock,  and  thought  about  him  and  of 
the  day  when  he  first  told  me  how  he  loved  me,  and  of  the  day  on 
which  we  were  married. 

When  the  clock  struck  one,  I  went  down,  peeped  in,  and  saw  the 
nurse  moving  about  the  chimney-piece.  Then  I  went  back  to  my 
room,  sat  do^\^l,  and  thought  of  Mark  until  two.  Then  I  went  down 
again,  and,  as  I  slightly  opened  Mark's  door,  I  saw  the  nurse  dozing 
in  her  arm-chair.  I  could  not  see  Mark,  for  the  door,  half-opened, 
only  showed  the  foot  of  his  bed  ;  but  I  heard  him  move  and  say 
"  Louise  ;"  and  I  shivered  as  I  heard  him.  ^leantime  his  movement 
or  mine  awakened  the  nurse,  and  she  saw  me. 

I  beckoned  to  her,  and,  after  a  glance  at  her  eharge,  she  came  out. 
I  saw  that  she  was  cold,  for  they  allowed  no  fire  in  Mark's  room  ;  and 
I  took  her  to  the  little  dining-room,  where  a  grate-full  of  coals  was 
lilazing,  and  made  her  take  an  arm-chair  near  the  fire.  Then  I  began 
to  talk  to  her ;  but  I  made  my  remarks  at  long  intervals,  so  that, 
after  a  few  moments,  she  fell  back  upon  the  cushions,  and  slept. 

When  I  was  assured  of  her  slumber,  I  rose,  and,  woman  that  I  am, 
walked  to  the  mirror.  I  saw  that  I  was  pale,  and  wondered  what  ho 
^•ould  think  of  me.     Tlien  I  went  into  his  room,  and  stood  beside 


ANTEROS.  105 

nim.  I  had  never  before  thought  him  handsome,  but  the  pallor  of  his 
skin  made  his  eyes  dark  and  full  of  languor ;  the  moisture  upon  his 
hair  gave  it  a  gloss  which  it  never  had  worn  in  health,  and  his  lips 
were  full  and  crimson.  To  me,  at  that  moment,  he  looked  surpass- 
ingly beautiful. 

He  saw  me  at  once,  and  after  Ave  had  gazed  at  each  other  for  a 
few  moments,  he  put  out  his  arms  and  said,  "  Louise,  Louise ;"  and  I 
sank  down  into  his  arms. 

The  lights  in  the  room  had  burned  out,  and  the  first  gray  tints  of 
morning  began  to  appear,  when  I  felt  a  fearful  shudder  pass  over 
Mark's  form,  and  he  writhed  himself  free  from  my  embrace.  Then 
he  asked  hoarsely  for  water. 

I  sprang  up,  gave  him  a  di'ink,  and  then  stood  at  his  bedside. 

His  eyes  were  on  fire  ;  his  cheeks  were  covered  with  a  burning 
flush,  and  his  hands  trembled  as  he  used  them  in  gesticulation. 

"  Louise,"  he  said,  "  I  am  dying." 

Then  an  indefinable  terror  seized  me,  and  I  crouched  down  beside 
the  bed,  but  my  eyes  were  fascinatedly  fixed  upon  his, 

"  Louise,  they  told  me,  the  doctors  told  me,  that  you  were  my 
death ;  they  told  me  that  your  love  had  killed  me ;  and  they  wanted 
me  to  quit  you,  Louise." 

He  put  out  his  arms  toward  me,  but  I  shrank  from  him  with  my 
blood  curdled. 

"  Louise,  I  mocked  at  them.  I  said  you  could  not  kill  me,  for  you 
had  my  life  and  soul  in  you  as  well  as  your  own.  God  !  what  a 
pain!" 

His  form  was  thrown  up  from  the  bed  in  his  agony,  and  then  fell 
down  again. 

"  Mark,  what  can  I  do  for  you,  darling  ?" 

"  Did  you  speak,  Louise  ?"  he  said  with  a  wild  stare.  "  I  saw 
your  lips  move,  but  only  heard  your  low,  sweet  voice  saying,  '  Mark, 
Mark,  I  love  you.'  I  hear  it  always.  I  feel  your  breath  upon  my 
lips  now.     Come  here,  Louise.     Quick !" 

I  bent  toward  him.  His  arms  caught  me  in  a  fierce  embrace, 
and  so  he  held  me  as  if  he  would  have  pressed  my  very  life  into  his 
bosom,  and  he  fastened  his  red  lips  on  mine. 


rj6  TOE    ATLANTIC    SOrVENIR. 

And  there,  in  that  clasp,  the  fires  faded  from  his  eyes,  and  his  lips 
froze  there  upon  mine. 


I  CARE  not  for  what  the  doctors  tell  me.     Mark  is  dead,  and  I  am 

dying  also;  but  slowly,  too  slowly  ! 


%\)t  lurial  at  larstrMir. 


BT    K.   8.   CnlLTON, 


"  Nothing  in  his  life 
Became  bim  like  the  leaving  it."  Suakspeare. 

■^'iiAT  sorrow  is  this  that  hath  cast  o'er  the  land 

So  wide-spread  a  shadow  ?     What  bright  star  hath  fled 
From  the  heavens  above  us  ?     "Why  stand  men  aghast, 

Tlieir  eyes  bending  earthward,  as  if  Earth  were  dead? 
Go  look  in  yon  coffin;  the  answer  is  plain, 

Written  there  in  that  wan  and  immovable  face : 
It  darkens  the  sunhght  and  thickens  the  air, 

And  robs  the  bright  world  of  its  manifold  grace. 

The  fire  is  gone  out  in  those  cavernous  eyes, 

Which  flashed  like  a  coal  at  the  blast  of  his  thought ; 
Those  closed  lips  will  part  nevermore,  though  the  world 

For  ages  will  ring  with  the  lessons  they  taught. 
Ay,  well  may'st  thou  mourn,  like  a  Rachel,  to-day, 

Dear  Goddess  of  Freedom,  and  weep  by  his  grave ; 
On  thy  altar  were  laid  the  first-fruits  of  his  life ; 

To  thee  the  great  toil  of  his  manhood  he  gave. 

No  longer  he  looks  as  when,  proudly  erect, 

FTe  gazed  on  the  rock  of  the  stern  Pilgrim  race, 
And  summoned  before  him  the  ghost  of  the  Past, 

And  talked  with  the  Future  itself  face  to  face! 
Words  fell  from  his  lips  like  the  first  sudden  drops 

That  fall  from  a  thunder-cloud  —  large,  heavy,  clear ; 
And  they  purged  men's  minds  as  the  prodigal  showers 

Purge  the  misty  and  slumberous  atmosphere. 


19^  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

From  the  soil  of  his  own  loved  New-England  he  sprang 

When  her  acres  were  drenched  with  the  blood  of  the  brave; 
A  nd  back  to  her  bosom  returning  to-day, 

With  his  honors  full-ripened,  he  sinks  to  the  grave. 
Never  greater  than  when,  (as  the  sun  of  his  life, 

Sloping  westward,  grew  large,)  humbly  kissing  the  rod, 
On  the  arms  of  the  Angel  of  Faith  and  of  Hcpe 

He  leaned  for  support,  and  went  home  to  his  GoD. 


Jl  f  ittnrg  llartiithm. 


BY      c.     r.     BRIOOa. 


A  LITTLE  EPISODE  IS  THE  LIFE  OP  A  GENTLEMAN  -WHO  WAS  AMBITIOUS  OF  DISTHfOTIOl? !  COM- 
PILED  FEOM  PAPERS  ■WHICH  WEKE  DISCOVERED  IX  HIS  DESK,  AFTER  HE  HAD  LEFT  BOMB 
ON  A  TOITB  THEOUGH   EFEOPK 

The  subject  of  this  brief  memoir,  which  must  be  restricted  to 
twelve  pages  of  the  present  volume,  was  the  son  of  wealthy  but  honest 
parents  ;  at  least  they  had  never  been  convicted  of  larceny,  nor  of  any 
other  crime.  We  mention  the  fact  of  their  honesty  for  the  reason 
that  there  is  a  prevalent  opinion  among  a  certain  class,  that  in  this 
country,  where  wealth  is  so*  rarely  inherited,  it  can  not  be  honestly 
obtained ;  honesty  and  fair  dealing  not  being  supposed  to  be  favor- 
able to  large  gains.  Though  the  flither  was  engaged  in  the  most 
respectable  business  of  importing  German  dolls  and  other  useful  arti- 
cles, and  was  one  of  the  safest  men  down-town,  he  had  enlarged  views 
for  his  son,  and  determined  to  give  him  what  he  had  always  felt  the 
need  of  himself —  a  thorough  education  ;  that  he  might  have  a  capi- 
tal to  start  with,  which  no  adverse  circumstances  could  deprive  him 
of  Bonds  and  stocks  might  prove  worthless,  banks  might  fail,  and 
merchandise  depreciate  in  value ;  but  no  changes  in  the  market  could 
affect  Latin  and  Greek ;  and  with  a  good  stock  of  these  commodities, 
the  father  had  no  fears  for  his  son.  His  reasons  for  attaching  so 
much  importance  to  these  valuable  languages,  could  not  have  been  the 
wealth  and  importance  which  they  have  usually  conferred  upon  those 
•who  possessed  them  in  the  greatest  quantities  ;  but,  whatever  the  rea- 
sons were,  they  were  all-sufficient  in  his  opinion.  After  leaving  college 
with  the  degree  of  A.B.,  and  as  much  knowledge  as'  young  men  usually 
take  from  the  halls  of  learning  where  they  graduate,  the  subject  of 


200  THE   ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

our  memoir  very  sensibly  took  a  wife,  to  aid  him  in  combatting  and 
overcoming  whatever  obstacles  he  might  encounter  in  his  way  through 
the  world.  Having  no  leaning  toward  any  particular  profession,  and 
feeling  quite  indifTcront  whether  he  earned  his  living  by  preaching  the 
Gospel,  practising  medicine,  or  promoting  litigation,  provided  he  could 
distinguish  himself,  he  hesitated  a  long  time  before  he  could  prevail 
upon  himself  what  to  do,  and  perhaps  he  would  never  have  come 
to  any  decision  upon  this  important  point,  had  not  his  father  inti- 
mated to  him,  at  last,  that  he  should  shut  off  the  supplies,  unless  his 
son  showed  a  disposition  to  do  something  for  himself.  Marvin,  for 
that  happened  to  be  his  Christian  name,  suggested  to  his  father 
that  a  year  or  two  spent  in  Europe  might  enable  him  to  determine 
what  profession  would  be  best  adapted  to  the  bent  of  his  genius.  But 
the  father  did  not  see  the  force  of  the  suggestion,  whereupon  the  son 
was  suddenly  illuminated  by  a  brilliant  thought,  which  put  an  end  to 
discussion  and  satisfied  all  parties.  He  would  start  a  magazine,  and 
distinguish  himself  as  Jeffrey,  Brougham,  Campbell,  Sydney  Smith, 
Kit  North,  and  other  illustrious  men  had  done  before  him,  in  the  same 
way,  and  make  lots  of  money  beside.  Any  of  the  learned  professions 
would  require  years  of  patient  drudgery  to  gain  respectability  even, 
but  here  was  a  plan,  now,  by  which  reputation  and  wealth  could  be 
attained  at  a  bound. 

"  Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way,"  is  an  excellent  maxim 
when  there  is  money  to  back  it  up,  which  happened  to  be  the  case 
in  this  instance.  Paper-makers,  printers,  binders,  and  all  the  opera- 
tives whose  aid  is  necessary  to  further  a  literary  enterprise,  are  the 
most  amiable,  obedient,  and  manageable  of  slaves,  and  always  hail, 
with  encournging  cheerfulness,  every  new  attempt  to  establish  a  lite- 
rary undertaking,  when  they  are  sure  of  their  pay.  Authors,  too, 
forget  their  caprices,  suddenly  grow  industrious  and  obliging,  genius 
brightens  up,  and  a  thousand  friends  come  f()rward  with  manuscripts 
and  advice,  under  similar  circumstances,  and  with  a  similar  contin- 
gency. So  the  subject  of  this  brief  history  found,  and  chuckled  with 
inward  delight  over  the  opening  glories  of  his  career,  as  he  made  his 
preparations  for  issuing  his  first  number.  Tliere  were  drawbacks  to 
the  business,  to  be  sun — a  back  side  to  the  canvas,  which,  it  was  con- 


A    LITERARY    MARTYRDOM.  201 

soling  to  him  to  remember,  none  would  see  but  himself.  He  would 
become  so  prominent  an  object  of  popular  esteem  and  curiosity,  that 
he  foresaw  many  annoyances  and  inconveniences,  fro'm  being  so  con- 
tinually  invited  to  dine  with  this  and  that  great  man,  to  be  compelled 
to  attend  the  dejeuners  of  renowned  prima  donnas,  to  join  literary 
coteries,  being  bothered  for  his  autograph,  and  to  accept  conciliatory 
and  grateful  offerings,  from  authors,  artists,  and  actors ;  all  these 
things,  to  a  gentleman  of  his  quiet  and  unostentatious  habits,  would 
prove  annoying ;  but  he  heroically  straightened  hi«  back  for  the  bur- 
then which  was  to  descend  upon  his  shoulders,  and  resolved  to  take 
the  bitter  with  the  sweet  of  his  new  employment  without  grumbling. 
His  consolation  and  reward  would  be  the  consciousness  of  having  ele- 
vated the  tone  of  popular  sentiment,  of  enlarging  the  bounds  of 
human  enjoyment,  and  of  assisting  in  the  development  of  American 
genius,  and  rewarding  native  talent.  Very  likely  other  men  may 
have  entertained  some  such  feelings  in  embarking  in  similar  enter- 
prises, and  they  will  readily  comprehend  the  emotions  of  Mr.  Smilax, 
at  this  momentous  period  of  his  career. 

Our  twelve  pages  will  not  allow  us  the  pleasure  of  giving  the 
world  an  account  of  the  reception  of  the  first  number  of  the  magazine, 
nor  permit  us  to  chronicle  the  gradual  change  which  took  place  in  the 
feelings  of  its  proprietor  and  editor,  as  he  day  by  day  discovered  he 
had  so  wonderfully  over-estimated  the  delights  and  profits  of  his 
enterprise,  and  so  ridiculously  under-estimated  its  troubles  and  annoy- 
ances. How  could  he  have  so  deluded  himself!  Manuscripts  poured 
in  upon  him  by  the  cart-load,  and  he  was  required  to  read  every  thing 
he  received,  and  give  a  critical  opinion  upon  it  the  next  day.  If  he 
accepted  an  article,  he  did  not  thereby  make  a  grateful  friend ;  but  if 
he  refused  one,  he  created  an  implacable  enemy.  Illustrious  authors 
did  not  manifest  any  of  that  feverish  anxiety  for  his  company  to  din- 
ner that  he  had  anticipated,  unless  he  acted  the  part  of  Amphitryon 
himself;  and  as  for  his  autograph,  the  only  applications  he  received 
for  it  Avere  from  certain  gentlemen  who  were  anxious  to  have  it  on 
the  backs  of  notes,  Avhich  they  wished  to  part  with. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  in  the  little  apartment,  which  was  most 
absurdly  called  his  "  sanctum,"  for  it  was  as  open  to  the  inroads  of 


202  THE    ATLAKTIC    SOUVENIR. 

impertinent  people  as  an  intelligence  office,  looking  over  a  heap  of 
manuscripts  with  aching  hoaJ  and  "wcary  eyes,  and  thinking  to  himself 
that  the  business  of  enlarging  the  boundaries  of  human  enjoyment 
was  not  half  so  agreeable  an  occupation  as  that  of  importing  German 
dolls  would  be,  when  he  was  diverted  from  his  desponding  thoughts 
by  the  sudden  apparition  of  a  lady,  accompanied  by  a  small  boy,  who 
carried  a  large  loll  under  his  arm. 

"  You  are  the  editor,  I  presume  ?"  said  the  lady ;  and,  having  been 
assured  of  the  correctness  of  her  supposition,  she  seated  herself  in  the 
only  chair  which  was  vacant  in  the  sanctum  —  all  the  other  seats 
being  filled  with  bundles  of  manugcripts,  which  were  waiting  to  be 
returned  to  their  authors,  or  consigned  to  the  balaam-box.  The  lady 
then  lifted  her  veil,  and  taking  the  roll  from  the  boy,  pleasantly 
informed  the  dismayed  editor,  for  whom  such  visitors  had  long  since 
lost  all  novelty,  that  she  wished  to  occupy  a  few  minutes  of  his  time 
in  reading  a  manuscript  novel,  which  she  desired  his  opinion  of. 

The  editor  declined  the  flivor  she  intended  him,  as  courteously  as 
his  temper  would  permit  him  to  do ;  but  she  insisted  that  he  would 
be  charmed  with  the  work,  and  she  would  permit  him  to  publish  it 
in  his  magazine.  He  pointed  to  the  heaps  of  manuscripts  lying  all 
about  him,  on  the  shelves,  on  the  tables,  in  baskets,  on  the  floor,  and 
in  the  chairs,  beside  two  or  three  green  boxes,  which  were  filled  full 
of  accepted  articles,  waiting  their  turns  to  be  published,  and  told  her 
they  had  all  prior  claims,  which  must  first  be  attended  to. 

But  ladies  who  have  a  point  to  carry  are  deaf  to  all  arguments 
which  do  not  tend  to  further  their  purposes,  and  the  strange  authoress 
only  smiled  more  pleasantly  than  before,  and  tossing  her  ringlets 
from  her  pale  cheeks,  said,  in  her  persuasive  voice,  "Allow  me  to 
read  you  one  chapter?  I  am  sure  it  will  interest  you." 

"  Madam,"  replied  the  beleaguered  editor,  "  I  have  no  doubt  of 
it;  but  what's  the  use?  I  could  notiise  the  story  if  it  pleased  mo 
never  so  much.  And  then  I  should  only  fool  the  greater  regret  in 
being  compelled  to  reject  it." 

"Ah!  now,"  said  the  lady,  "there  is  the  most  delightful  character 
in  it,  and  a  ghost,  and  a  most  mysterious  personage.  It  would  make 
your  magazine  sell  wonderfully.     It  is  just   the  kind  of  story  which 


A    LITERARY    MARTYKDOM.  203 

every  body  says  your  magazine  needs.     Let  me  read  you  but  one 
chapter  V 

A  pitcher  of  water  and  a  tumbler  were  standing  upon  the  table, 
and  the  editor,  taking  up  the  pitcher,  filled  the  tumbler  full, 

"  There,  Madam,"  said  he,  "  you  see  that  when  a  vessel  is  full  it 
will  hold  no  more ;  see,  another  drop  and  it  overflows.  I  am  full, 
my  room  is  full,  desks,  drawers,  baskets,  boxes,  magazine,  and  all 
are  full.     I  can  receive  no  more." 

"Just  one  more  will  make  no  great  difference,  I  am  sure,"  said 
the  authoress,  paying  no  other  heed  to  the  forcible  illustration  of  the 
editor,  than  to  smile  most  benignly  and  patiently  while  he  demon- 
strated the  simple  fact.  "  Come,  let  me  read  my  introductory  chap- 
ter, and  I  am  sure  you  will  want  to  read  the  rest  yourself." 

"Madam,  I  have  been  compelled  to  deny  thousands  of  such 
requests,"  said  he,  biting  his  lips. 

"  But  a  lady  !"  said  she.  "  You  might  refuse  to  hear  a  gentleman, 
but  you  would  not  refuse  a  lady '?" 

The  editor  paused  a  moment,  and  he  was  ruined.  He  was  natur- 
ally tender-hearted,  and  he  thought  of  his  wife  and  his  mother ;  what 
if  either  of  them  should  ever  be  compelled  to  .solicit  a  favor  from  an 
editor  1  and  how  would  he  feel  to  hear  they  had  been  refused  ? 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  with  a  softened  tone,  "  it  is  quite  impossible 
for  me  to  hear  you  read  your  novel  now ;  but  leave  it  with  me,  and 
I  will  I'ead  it  through  at  my  earliest  leisure." 

"  I  may  depend  upon  you  f  she  said  half-doubtingly,  as  she  depo- 
sited the  roll  on  his  table. 

"  I  pledge  you  my  word  as  a  gentleman,"  he  said. 

"  I  will  call  again  soon,"  said  the  lady,  who  courtsied  and  smiled, 
and  then  retired,  followed  by  her  page. 

But  she  had  scarcely  left  the  sanctum  when  the  wretched  man,  as 
he  took  up  the  roll  of  manuscript,  and  tossed  it  upon  a  shelf,  where 
lay  heaps  of  similar  bundles,  repented  of  what  he  had  done. 

"  What  a  fool  I  was !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  glanced  around  him, 
"  to  make  that  rash  promise !  There  is  O'Mulligan,  who  will  chal 
lenge  me  if  I  do  not  read  his  essay  on  the  Round  Towers ;  there  is 
the  Reverend  Doctor  Slospoken,  who  will  denounce  me  to  hii  congre 


204  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVENIR. 

gation,  if  I  neglect  his  essay  on  Human  Responsibilities ;  Professor 
Verdigriss  will  speak  sneeringly  of  me  to  his  class,  if  I  am  not  pre- 
pared with  an  opinion  of  his  article  ahout  the  Retrocession  of  Solar 
Paradoxes;  and  Mrs.  Winkle's  Blighted  Buds  must  be  reviewed  for 
my  next  number.  How  am  I  to  do  all  these  things,  and  read  that 
woman's  tremendous  manuscript!  I  was  a  madman  to  make  such  a 
promise !  The  deuce  take  her !  But  I  will  not  be  so  caught  again." 
He  gave  strict  orders  that  no  woman,  under  any  circumstances 
whatever,  should  ever  again  be  permitted  to  enter  his  sanctum ;  and 
after  spending  a  few  more  hours  at  his  dreary  employment,  he  went 
home  to  his  wife,  solacing  himself  with  the  recollection  of  his  domes- 
tic happiness,  and  repeating  to  himself  a  quatrain  from  some  verses 
which  he  had  addressed  to  his  Maria  Jane  before  their  marriage : 

"  Maria,  on  thy  peaceful  breast 
The  weary  worker  seeks  rejwse, 
And  in  thy  fond  affections  blest 
He  finds  a  cure  for  all  his  woes." 

"A  cure  for  all  his  woes!"  he  repeated  to  himself,  as  he  put  his 
night-key  in  the  door,  and  bounding  up-stairs  into  the  boudoir  of  his 
Maria,  was  suddenly  arrested  by  discovering  her  in  tears. 

Maria  Jane  in  tears !  The  heart  of  Smila.x  was  smitten  by  the 
sight,  and  his  anxiety  to  learn  the  cause  of  her  first  sorrow  may 
readily  be  imagined  by  husbands  who  have  had  a  similar  experience 
—  and  what  husband  has  not  1 

But  he  then  learned  that  when  a  wife  is  most  afflicted,  there  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  her.  Mrs.  Smilax  continued  to  weep,  and 
at  every  appeal  of  her  husband,  to  enlighten  him  as  to  the  cause  of 
her  grief,  she  would  only  reply,  "  Nothing !" 

But  Smilax  knew  perfectly  well  that  "nothing,"  in  this  case,  meant 
something  dire  and  calamitous  to  his  domestic  peace.  After  a  while, 
the  torrent  of  his  wife's  grief  subsided  into  a  sullen  and  reproachful 
melancholy,  more  hard  to  endure  than  the  most  terrifying  outbursts 
of  grief  and  passion. 

Maria  Jane  was  nut  one  of  the  Queen  Catharine  style  <>f  wives; 
she  calmly  subsidril  into  the  injured  innocence  state,  and  jursonated 


A   LITERARY    MARTYRDOM.  205 

most  effectively  the  character  ol"  a  resigned  saint,  persevering  in 
her  sad  declaration  that  nothing  liad  happened  —  nothing !  She  had 
no  complaints  to  malie.  It  would  all  be  over  soon ;  and  what  was 
her  happiness,  if  he  were  only  happy  ! 

Smilax  went  to  his  office  the  next  day,  a  thoroughly  wretched 
man ;  but  his  duties  were  too  engrossing  to  permit  him  to  dwell  on 
his  domestic  troubles.  He  had  tried  in  vain  to  imagine  the  cause  of 
his  wife's  griefs,  but  he  could  not  call  to  mind  any  circumstance 
which  could,  in  any  manner,  have  awakened  her  jealousy,  or  given 
her  reason  to  shed  a  tear.  What  added  to  his  distress  was  his 
inability  to  consult  with  any  of  his  friends  in  regard  to  the  matter,  or 
ask  advice  as  to  the  proper  mode  of  procedure  in  such  cases.  Tlie 
spirit  of  discontent  had  entered  his  paradise,  and  he  was  unhappy , 
and  that  Avas  all  he  knew  about  it. 

The  mail  had  brought  him  heaps  of  letters  and  manuscripts,  all 
of  them  requiring  immediate  attention;  the  printer  had  sent  him 
bundles  of  proofs,  which  must  be  read  and  returned  at  once ;  and 
O'Mulligan  had  threatened  him  with  a  scorching,  in  a  rival  magazine, 
for  not  deciding  on  his  manuscript  sooner;  and  two  clergymen,  a 
lady,  a  Polish  lecturer,  and  halta-dozen  suspicious-looking  men  of  a 
very  miscellaneous  character,  were  waiting  in  his  ante-room,  some  to 
learn  his  decision  in  regard  to  communications  already  sent,  and 
some  to  offer  him  essays  and  poems.  It  was  a  melting  hot  day ;  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  had  gone  to  the  country  or  the  sea-side ;  but  he 
was  forced  to  remain  to  make  up  his  next  number.  The  perspiration 
rolled  from  his  clouded  brow,  as  he  seated  himself  at  his  overburdened 
desk,  and  thought  of  his  duties.  With  a  kind  of  grim  desperation,  he 
took  up  the  roll  of  manuscript  which  the  lady  had  left  him  the  day 
before,  and  smiled  scornfully,  as  he  read  the  title,  "A  Pledge  of 
Affection.     By  Pattie  Passionflower." 

"Another  vegetable  name  in  literature  !"  he  said  to  himself;  "Pop- 
pyflower  would  be  better.  I  thought,  when  I  received  a  poem  from 
Carry  Cauliflower,  that  that  particular  form  of  literary  disease  had 
come  to  an  end ;  but  here  is  another."  He  ran  his  eye  rapidly  ovei 
a  few  leaves  of  the  manuscript  —  for  he  had  karned  the  art  of  judging 
of  the  character  of  a  literary  performance  without  reading  it  all 


206  THE    ATLANTIC    SOfVENIR. 

through  —  and  remorselessly  writing  a  mystical  word  upon  it,  tied 
up  the  bundle  and  threw  it  into  the  balaam-box,  with  a  large  heap  of 
other  rejected  oflorings  to  be  returned  to  their  owners. 

This  was,  at  first,  a  most  painful  thing  for  him  to  do ;  for  he  had  him- 
self once  been  a  contributor  to  a  magazine,  and  he  well  knew  the  irrita- 
ting anxiety  which  a  young  author  fools  fur  the  fate  of  his  manuscript; 
and  he  used  to  write  soothing  letters  to  the  poor  adventurers  whose 
bantlings  he  was  compelled  to  reject ;  but  he  had  long  since  become 
hardened  to  his  duty,  and  rather  felt  himself  the  aggrieved  and  injured 
party,  when  a  manuscript  was  offered  to  him,  which,  after  being  at  the 
cost  of  reading,  he  Avas  compelled  to  reject.  "  It  is  not  my  fault," 
would  Smilax  say  to  himself; ' '  if  they  can't  write  better  ;  why  should 
I  be  unhappy  about  it  1" 

Ah !  little  did  the  public  think  or  care,  that,  to  obtain  the  one 
tolerably  good  essay,  which  they  would  find  fault  with  for  not  being 
more  brilliant,  he  had  been  obliged  to  read  thi'ough  four  or  five  hun- 
dred much  worse  ones,  "  "What  does  the  world  care  about  the  trou- 
bles or  sufferings  of  any  of  its  servants,  who  wear  their  lives  out  in 
trying  to  give  pleasure  or  instruction  to  others  ?  Not  a  straw !  Yet  we 
will  be  martyrs  for  the  chance  smile  of  approbation  which  the  world 
now  and  then  bestows  upon  us  —  slaves  of  its  whims,"  said  Smilax 
to  himself,  as  he  wended  his  way  home  that  night,  wearied  with 
his  day's  work,  and  halfdrcading  to  meet  Maria  Jane.  The  truth 
was  that  she  had  neglected  to  give  him  the  customary  parting 
kiss,  which  she  had  never  forgotten  to  do  before.  "  Forgotten !" 
exclaimed  Smilax  bitterly  in  his  thoughts  ;  "  she  did  not  forget  it  — 
she  did  it  on  purpose ;  she  had  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  she 
would  not  allow  me  to  kiss  her.  I  have  broken  my  wife's  heart ;  but 
how  I  did  it  I  have  not  the  ghost  of  an  idea.  I  hope  she  has  got  over 
it  by  this  time,  though." 

But  the  faint  hope  was  soon  withered  ;  for,  as  he  opened  the  door, 
he  heard  a  stifled  sobbing,  which  he  knew  at  once  proceeded  from 
Maria  Jane ;  and  worse  and  more  ominous  than  all,  the  severe  visage 
of  his  mothor-in-law  frowned  freezingly  upon  him,  as  he  entered  the 
room  where  the  wife  of  his  young  afleetions  lay  sobbing  hysterically 
upon  the  sofa.     Maria  Jane  had  sent  for  her  motlier,  and  Smilaj 


A    LITERAEY    MARTYRDOM.  207 

knew  that  she  would  not  say  that  "  nothing  was  the  matter,"  for  that 
is  not  the  way  in  which  mothers-in-law  vent  their  reproaches.  It  was 
a  comfort  to  the  distressed  husband  and  editor  to  feel  sure  that  he 
would  now  know  the  worst,  let  it  be  what  it  might.  And  he  was 
perfectly  correct  in  his  assumptions ;  for,  as  he  mildly  asked  what 
was  the  matter,  the  word  "Monster !"  fell  upon  his  ear  with  a  clear- 
ness and  distinctness  of  utterance  that  made  him  hop. 

"  Do  n't,  mother !"  sobbed  out  Maria  Jane ;  "  I  can  die,  but  I  will 
never  reproach  him." 

What  Smilax  would  have  said,  or  might  have  said,  if  he  had  not 
been  rendered  speechless  by  the  strangeness  of  these  proceedings,  we 
must  leave  the  public  to  imagine. 

"  I  do  n't  wonder  at  your  silence,"  said  his  mother-in-law.  "  You 
have  killed  this  suffering  angel,  and  made  me  childless." 

Maria  Jane,  we  may  observe,  was  an  only  daughter,  from  which 
the  tender  manner  of  her  bringing  up  may  be  inferred. 

"  If  I  have  killed  her,"  said  Smilax,  meekly,  "  I  am " 

"  I  can't  boar  hypocrisy,"  said  his  mother  in-law ;  "  I  should  think 
much  better  of  you  if  you  confessed  your  villainy  openly.  Read  that 
letter,  and  save  yourself  the  trouble  of  further  dissimulation." 

As  the  word  "letter"  was  named,  the  suffering  angel  on  the  sofa 
broke  out  in  a  fresh  agony  of  hysterical  sobs. 

Smilax  took  the  letter,  and  with  a  puzzled  expression  examined 
the  direction,  which  was  to  his  wife ;  the  hand  had  a  very  familiar 
look  to  him ;  but,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  examining  so  many  speci- 
mens of  handwriting  daily,  he  had  but  a  confused  idea  of  its  individual 
character.  He  opened  the  letter  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  had  read 
but  a  few  lines  when,  to  the  horror  of  his  mother-in-law,  he  broke  out 
in  a  fit  of  the  most  obstreperous  mirth.  Unable  to  restrain  his 
laughter,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  floor  and  fairly  roared,  holding 
on  to  his  sides  with  both  hands,  and  kicking  his  heels  as  though  he 
were  in  convulsions. 

Maria  Jane  started  up  wildly,  and  her  mother  tried  to  look  very 
indignant,  but  felt  that  she  must  look  very  foolish.  She  knew  she 
had  made  a  mistake ;  and  to  be  compelled  to  confess  it  to  her  son- 
in-law,  in  whose  eyes  she  had  ever  striven  to  appear  immaculate,  and 


208  THE    ATLAN'TIC    SOUVENIR. 

not  liable  to  any  mistakes  whatever,  was  enough  to  make  her  feel  and 
look  very  foolish. 

It  was  a  good  while  before  Smilax  could  command  himself  long 
enough  to  speak,  but  the  moment  he  did,  his  wife  leaped  from  the 
sofa,  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and,  if  there  had  been  a  piano 
in  the  room,  she  would  have  gone  off  with  "Ah  !  non  yiunge!'"  in  a 
manner  that  any  prima  donna  might  have  envied. 

To  save  the  trouble  of  an  explanation,  we  will  give  our  readers  a 
copy  of  the  letter  which  caused  this  domestic  etneute,  and  leave  it  to 
their  own  imaginations  to  do  the  rest. 

[copy.] 
"  Dear  Madam  : 

"  Though  a  stranger  to  you,  I  am  not  to  your  husband ;  and  I  do 
not  flatter  myself  that  he  would  confide  to  you  the  kind  of  transac- 
tions which  such  as  I  have  with  him ;  and  I  would  not  now  intrude 
upon  you,  were  it  not  for  the  peculiar  circumstances  in  which  I  am 
placed.  I  am  a  mother  ;  I  believe  that  yoti  are  7iot,  and  you  may  not 
understand  my  feelings.  But  my  oflspring  must  be  provided  for.  *I 
am  not  mercenary,  yet  I  can  not  afford  to  part  with  the  '  Pledge  of 
Affection'  which  I  left  with  him  yesterday,  without  pay.  This  I  wish 
you  to  say  to  him.  After  a  long  and  most  satisfactoi-y  interview 
which  I  had  with  him,  when  I  returned  to  say  this  much,  and  '  nothing 
more,'  I  was  denied  all  access  to  him,  and  have  ventured  to  request 
you  to  act  as  my  mediator  with  him.  If  my  presence  is  disagreeable 
to  him,  he  has  my  address,  and  may  drop  me  a  line  informing  me  of 
his  decision.     The  'Pledge'  may  be  sent  back  if  he  declines  to  pay. 

"  Most  truly  yours, 
•'To  Mbs.  Smilax."  "Pattie  Passionflower. 

This  little  affair  proved  the  straw  which  broke  the  camel's  back. 
Smilax  concluded  the  next  morning  that  his  martyrdom  in  the  cause 
of  literature  had  been  endured  long  enough.  The  delusive  idea  of 
distinguishing  himsilf  by  acting  as  a  monthly  nurse  to  other  people's 
literary  bantlings,  and  of  elevating  popular  taste  by  any  such  means, 
was  entirely  dissipated.     lie  sold  out  to  some  body  as  deluded  as  he 


A    LITERARY    MARTYRDOM.  209 

had  been ;  and  soon  after,  the  following  advertisement  in  the  morning 
papers  told  the  catastrophe  of  his  literary  career,  and  the  total  eclipse 
of  all  his  ambitious  aspirations  for  distinction : 

"Partnership  Notice.  —  Mr.  M.  Smilax,  Jr.,  having  been  ad- 
mitted a  partner  of  our  house,  the  business  of  importing  German 
dolls  will  be  conducted  under  the  name  of  M.  Smilax,  Son  &  Co. 

"Smilax  &  Co." 


"After  all,"  said  Smilax  to  me,  one  day,  as  I  met  him  coming  out 
of  his  broker's,  where  he  had  been  looking  over  the  stock  list,  with 
the  view  of  making  a  safe  investment  of  his  spare  capital,  "  what  a 
precious  delusion  this  love  of  distinction  is !  What  more  should  sen- 
sible men  like  ourselves  aspire  to,  than  to  be  distinguished  in  their 
own  families  as  good  husbands  and  fathers,  and  to  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  they  owe  no  man  a  dollar,  which  they  can  not  pay  on 
demand  ?     That 's  the  only  distinction  worth  striving  for." 

I  am  afraid  there  was  a  shade  of  sarcasm  in  the  smile  which  passed 
over  my  features  in  reply  to  these  grovelling  sentiments  of  my  friend ; 
for  he  immediately  added  with  a  slight  blush : 

"  It  is  true  that  importing  German  dolls  is  not  the  noblest  occupa- 
tion in  which  a  reasoning  creature  can  engage ;  but  children  must  be 
amused  with  dolls,  as  well  as  men  with  magazines,  and  why  not 
choose  the  business  which  affords  the  best  returns  ?" 

I  could  only  smile  again,  for  arguments  of  this  nature  have  but  one 
side  to  them ;  and  Smilax,  feeling  his  triumph,  changed  the  subject  by 
inviting  me  to  a  family  dinner,  with  Maria  Jane  and  the  children. 


14 


tots. 


BY  ALFBSD  B.  8TBKET. 


Whether  pluming  the  mountain,  edging  the  lake,  eye-lashing  tha 
stream,  roofing  the  waterfall,  sprinkling  the  meadow,  burying  the 
homestead,  or  darkening  leagues  of  hill,  plain,  and  valley,  trees  have 
always  "  haunted  me  like  a  passion."  Let  me  summon  a  few  of 
them,  prime  favorites,  and  familiar  to  the  American  forest. 

The  aspen — what  soft,  silver-gray  tints  on  its  leaves,  how  smooth 
its  mottled  bark,  its  whole  shape  how  delicate  and  sensitive !  You 
may  be  sitting  on  the  homestead  lawn  some  summer  noon,  the  trees 
all  motionless,  and  the  hot  air  trembling  over  the  surface  of  the 
unstirred  grass.  Suddenly  you  will  hear  a  fluttering  like  the  unloos 
ing  of  a  rapid  brook,  and  looking  whence  comes  the  sound,  you  will 
see  the  aspen  shaking  as  if  falling  to  pieces,  or  the  leaves  were  little 
wings  each  striving  to  fly  off".  All  this  time  the  broad  leaf  of  the 
maple  close  by,  does  not  even  lift  its  pointed  edges.  This  soft  mur- 
mur really  sends  a  coolness  through  the  sultry  atmosphere;  but 
while  your  ear  is  drinking  the  music  and  your  eye  filled  with  the 
tumultuous  dancing,  instantly  both  cease  as  if  the  tree  were  stricken 
with  a  palsy,  and  the  quiet  leaves  flash  back  the  sunshine  like  so  many 
fairy  mirrors. 

Next  the  elm.  How  noble  the  lift  and  droop  of  its  branches ! 
With  such  graceful  downward  curves  on  either  side,  it  has  the  shape 
of  the  Greek  vase.  Such  lavish  foliage  also,  running  down  the  trunk 
to  the  very  roots,  as  if  a  rich  vine  were  wreathed  around  it !  And 
what  frame-works  those  branches  shape,  breaking  the  landscape 
beyond  into  half-oval  scenes  which  look  through  the  chiaroscuro  as 


212  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

if  beheld  through  slightly  shaded  glass.  And  how  finely  the  elm  leans 
over  the  brook — its  native  place — turning  the  water  into  ebony,  and 
forming  a  shelter  for  the  cattle  from  the  heat.  It  is  scattered,  too, 
over  the  meadow,  making  shady  nooks  for  the  mowers  at  their  noon 
tide  meal,  shadowing  also  the  farmer's  gate  and  mantling  his  home 
stead  in  an  affluence  of  green. 

Then  the  maple.  What  a  splendid  cupola  of  leaves  it  builds  up 
into  the  sky — an  almost  complete  canopy  from  the  summer  shower. 
It  reddens  brilliantly  when  the  blue-bird  tells  us  spring  has  come, 
and,  a  few  days  later,  its  dropped  fringes  gleam  in  the  fresh  grass  like 
flakes  of  fire.  And  in  autumn,  too,  its  crimson  is  so  rich,  one  might 
term  it  the  blush  of  the  wood. 

And  the  beech.  How  cheerfully  its  snow-spotted  trunk  looks 
in  the  deep  woods  —  how  fresh  the  green  of  its  regularly-scalloped 
leaves !  At  spring-tide  the  tips  of  its  sprays  feather  out  in  the 
glossiest  and  most  delicate  cream-satin,  amid  which  the  young  leaf 
glows  like  a  speck  of  emerald.  And  in  the  fall  what  rich  clusters  of 
fruit  burthen  the  boughs!  The  pattering  of  the  brown  three-cor- 
nered beech-nut  upon  the  dead  leaves  is  constant  in  the  hazy,  purple 
days  of  our  Indian  summer,  and  makes  a  sweet  music,  almost  con- 
tinuous as  the  dripping  of  a  rill,  in  the  mournful  forest. 

The  birch  is  a  great  favorite  of  mine.  It  reminds  me  of  the 
whistles  of  my  boyhood.  Its  fragrant  bark  —  what  delight  it  was  to 
wrench  it  from  the  silvery  wood  for  the  shrill  music  I  delighted  in, 
particularly  by  the  hearth-stone  of  my  home ! 

"  Conscience !"  my  aunt  Katy.  used  to  ejaculate,  holding  her  ears ; 
"is  that  whistling  coming  again?  John,  (John  is  my  rame  —  John 
Smith,)  do,  do  stop  !" 

And  when  came  a  shriller  blast, 

"  John,  you  little  torment !  if  you  do  n't  stop,  I  '11  box  your 
ears !" 

What  splendid  tassels  the  birch  hangs  out  at  the  bidding  of 
April !  —  tassels  that  Indian  sachems  were  proud  to  wear  at  the  most 
honored  feasts  of  their  nation. 

And  into  such  rich  gold  is  it  transmuted  by  October,  u  light  is 
almost  shed  of  its  own  within  the  sylvan  recesses.     The  speckled 


TREES.  213 

bark  of  the  black  birch  is  glossy  and  bright,  but  give  me  the  beauty 
of  the  white  birch's  coat.  How  like  a  shaft  of  ivory  it  gleams  in  the 
daylight  woods — how  the  flame  of  moonlight  kindles  it  into  columned 
pearl ! 

Did  you  ever,  while  wandering  in  the  forest  about  the  first  of 
June,  have  your  eyes  dazzled  at  a  distance  with  what  you  supposed 
to  be  a  tree  laden  with  snow?  It  was  the  dogwood.  Glittering 
in  its  white  blossoms,  each  one  spread  over  a  broad  leaf  of  the 
brightest  verdure,  pointed  gauze  upon  emerald,  there  stands  the 
pretty  tree  like  a  bride.  The  shadbush  and  cherry  have  dropped 
their  white  honors  a  month  before,  but  the  dogwood  keeps 
company  with  the  basswood  and  locust  in  brightening  the  last  days 
of  spring  with  its  floral  beauty.  Up  in  the  soft  blue  it  lifts  its 
wreathed  crown,  for  it  gathers  its  richest  glow  of  blossom  at  its  head, 
and  makes  the  forest  bright  as  with  silver  chandeliers. 

While  admiring  the  dogwood,  an  odor  of  exquisite  sweetness  may 
salute  you ;  and  if  at  all  conversant  in  tree-knowledge  you  will  know 
the  censer  dispensing  this  fragrance.  But  you  will  have  to  travel 
some  distance,  and  you  will  do  it  as  the  hound  tracks  the  deer,  by 
scent,  for  the  perfume  fills  the  forest  long  before  the  tree  catches 
the  eye.  At  length  you  see  it  —  the  basswood  —  clustered  with 
yellow  blossoms,  golden  bells  pouring  out  such  strong,  delicious  fra- 
grance, you  realize  the  idea  of  Shelley : 

"  And  the  hyacinth,  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense. 
It  was  felt  liko  an  odor  within  the  sense." 

And  the  deep  hum,  too,  about  it  —  an  atmosphere  of  sound  —  the 
festival  of  the  bees  surrounding  the  chalices  so  rich  with  honey. 

I  have  mentioned  the  flowers  of  the  locust  and  chestnut  in  con- 
junction with  the  hasswood.  Delicate  pearl  does  the  former  hang 
out  amid  the  vivid  green  of  its  beautiful  leaves,  and  sweet  is  that 
pearl  as  the  lips  of  the  maiden  you  love. 

And  the  chestnut  —  scattered  thickly  among  its  long,  dark-green 
leaves  are  strings  of  pale  gold  blossoms  —  haunts  also  of  the  revelling 


214  THE    ATLANTIC    SOrVE.VIR. 

bee.  Docs  the  school-boy  ever  forget  "the  days  that  he  went" 
truanting  after  the  auburn  fruit  embedded  in  velvet  within,  but 
without  protected  by  porcupines  of  husks  ?  With  what  delight  did 
the  young  good-for-nothings  pelt  down  those  yellow  husks  to  be 
crushed  open  by  indefatigable  heels!  Ah!  the  aurora  of  life  —  how 
bright,  how  merry  it  is  ! 

For  ever  linked  in  the  minds  of  these  truants  with  the  chestnut  is 
the  walnut.  How  the  green,  smooth  globes  that  insphere  the  fruit 
make  the  eyes  of  the  young  vagabonds  dance,  and  how  eagerly  they 
mount  to  shake  do^vn  those  globes,  each  fracturing  at  the  fall,  and 
letting  out  the  round  ivories  that  in  turn  imprison  the  dark  gold 
meats ! 

And  now  the  oak,  "  the  brave  old  oak,"  and  so  forth.  Suppose 
yourself  in  a  wood !  Do  you  see  that  little  brown  vegetable  cup 
with  a  braided  cover  —  there  by  the  dead  maple  leaf  and  tuft  of 
crimson-headed  moss?  Yon  robin  just  planted  his  foot  upon  and 
cjovered  it.  And  then  do  you  see  that  towering  tree  whose  head 
seems  nearly  to  touch  the  white  cloud  above  it?  Look!  upon  its 
very  apex  there  is  a  bird,  seemingly  the  size  of  this  wild  pigeon  on 
the  beech-tree,  but  in  reality  an  eagle.  A  great  many  years  have 
intervened  between  the  two  objects,  it  is  true,  but  you  think  twice 
ere  realizing  that  yon  seamed,  stern,  sturdy  oak  once  nestled  in  this 
acorn.  So  of  all  trees,  you  say,  from  the  seed.  True  again,  but 
none  strikes  you  so  forcibly  in  this  contrast  as  the  oak.  And  what  a 
tree  it  is !  First  piercing  the  mould,  a  tiny  needle  that  the  ground- 
squirrel,  would  destroy  with  a  nibble,  and  then  rearing  grandly 
toward  the  sun  a  -wreath  of  green  to  endure  for  ages.  Docs  the  wild 
wind  dash  upon  it  ?  Its  shakes  its  proud  head,  but  no  more  bends 
its  whole  shape  than  yon  crag.  Doth  the  arrowy  sleet  strike  it?  Its 
leaves  only  make  clicking  music ;  and  as  for  the  early  snow,  it  bears 
it  up  easily  as  a  deer  would  fragments  of  kalmia-blossoms  on  his 
antlers.  IIow  finely  its  dark  green  stands  out  from  the  lighter  hues 
of  the  beeches,  birches,  and  maples !  And  then  how  it  keeps  old 
Time  at  a  distance!  Why,  decades  arc  nothing  to  it.  The  child 
gathers  the  violet  at  its  foot;  as  a  boy,  he  pockets  its  dropped 
acorns ;  a  man,  he  looks  at  its  height,  towering  up,  towering  up,  and 


TREES.  215 

makes  it  the  emblem  of  his  ambition.  Years  after,  Avith  white  hairs 
and  palsied  limbs,  he  totters  at  noontide  to  lie  within  its  shade  and 
slumber,  "perchance  to  dream"  of  that  last  sleep  which  can  not  be 
distant,  and  which  "  knows  no  waking."  But  has  the  oak  changed  ? 
Mocker  of  the  storm,  stern  darer  of  the  lightning,  there  he  stands,  the 
same,  and  seemingly  for  ever.  Challenger  of  Time,  defier  of  earth's 
changes,  there  he  stands  the  pride  of  the  forest,  satirizing,  in  his  mute 
language,  alike  the  variations  of  fortune  and  evanescence  of  man. 

And  he  does  all  things  in  a  grand,  slow  way,  unlike  other  trees. 
In  spring-time,  when  the  aspen  has  showed  for  a  month  its  young 
leaves  of  silver  gray,  when  the  beech  has  thrust  forth  its  beau- 
tiful feathers,  when  the  maple  has  made  a  red  rain  of  its  glowing  blos- 
soms upon  the  forest  floor,  the  oak  still  looks  as  he  did  when  Janu- 
ary was  frowning  upon  his  branches.  When  the  aspen  has  elabor- 
ated its  small  leaves  into  thick  foliage,  when  the  beech  has  spangled 
itself  over  with  emerald,  when  the  maple  has  hung  upon  its  slender 
stems  its  broad  pearl-lined  verdure,  no  tint  of  green  ujion  the  oak. 
He  stands  yet  in  dark  disdain,  as  if  mourning  the  perished  winter. 
But  at  last,  when  the  woodland  is  smiling  in  its  fully-developed  glory, 
when  the  tardy  blossoms  of  the  locust  and  tulip-tree  are  drenching 
the  air  with  delicious  sweetness,  then  stirs  the  oak.  Little  brown 
things  are  scattered  over  his  great  boughs,  which  in  due  time  become 
long,  deep-veined  leaves ;  and  lo !  the  regal  oak  has  donned  his 
splendid  robe.  The  summer  passes,  and  the  autumn  comes.  What 
stands  at  the  corner  of  yon  wood,  swathed  in  a  mantle  of  the  true 
imperial?  Crimsons,  and  yellows,  and  golden-browns  are  flashing  all 
around  him,  as  though  there  were  a  carnival  among  the  trees,  but  no 
hue  is  brighter  than  that  of  the  brave  old  oak  in  his  robe  of  royal 
purple.  And  he  is  in  no  more  haste  to  let  that  robe  of  his  go  than 
in  putting  it  on.  When  the  shrieking  blasts  have  torn  its  mantle 
from  every  other  tree,  the  oak  still  clings  to  his,  as  if  he  said  to  those 
shrieking  blasts,  "  I  defy  your  fury !"  When  the  snow-bird  comes 
twittering  among  the  woods  to  tell  them  the  snow  will  shortly  be 
showering  loose  pearl  all  through  their  gaunt  domains,  the  oak  yet 
holds  to  his  mantle,  blanched  and  tattered  though  it  be.  High  amid 
the  snow-drifts,  firm  amid  the  blasts,  the  pale  crackling  leaves  still 


216  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

cling,  With  nothing  in  the  wide,  bleak  forests  to  keep  them  company 
save  here  and  there  a  shivering  lingerer  upon  the  beech-tree.  Often 
it  is  only  when  their  successors  come  "to  push  them  from  their 
stools"  that  the  old  leaves  quit  the  gallant  oak  and  lie  do^vn  tc 
perish.     So  a  health  to  the  oak ! 

We  will  merely  touch,  in  passing,  upon  the  horse-chestnut,  with 
its  great  glistening  spring-buds  bursting  into  cones  of  pearly,  red- 
spotted  blossoms  that  almost  cover  its  noble  dome  of  foliage ;  upon 
the  hemlock,  with  its  masses  of  evergreen  needles,  and  the  cedar,  with 
its  misty  blue  berries ;  upon  those  tree-like  shrubs  —  the  hopple,  with 
its  gigantic  leaves  serving  as  sylvan  goblets  at  pio-nics ;  the  sumac, 
with  its  clusters  of  splendid  crimson ;  the  sassafras,  diffusing  from  its 
thick  leaf  a  most  delicious  breath;  the  laurel,  arching  above  the 
brooks  a  roof  radiant  with  immense  bouquets  of  rose-touched  snow, 
and  even  garlanding  the  apex  of  the  water-beech  with  its  superb  cha- 
lices, while  its  younger  sister,  the  ivy,  crouches  at  the  foot  of  the 
tamarack  and  spruce,  rich  in  red-streaked  urns  of  blossoms ;  and  the 
witch-hazel,  smiling  at  winter,  with  its  curled,  sharp-cut  flowers  of 
golden  velvet. 

We  come  now  to  the  pine,  of  all  my  greatest  favorite. 

Ho !  ho !  the  burly  pine !  Hurrah !  hurrah  for  the  pine !  The 
oak  may  be  king  of  the  lowlands,  but  the  pine  is  the  king  of  the 
hills  —  aye,  and  mountains  too. 

Ho !  ho !  the  burly  pine !  how  he  strikes  his  clubbed  foot  deep 
into  the  cleft  of  the  rock,  or  grasps  its  span  with  conscious  power ! 
There  he  lifts  his  haughty  front  like  the  warrior-monarch  that  he  is. 
No  flinching  about  the  pine,  let  the  time  bo  ever  so  stormy.  His 
throne  is  the  crag,  and  his  crown  is  a  good  way  up  in  the  heavens, 
and  as  for  the  clouds  he  tears  them  asunder  sometimes,  and 
uses  them  for  robes.  Then  hurrah  again  for  the  pine!  say  I. 
Reader,  did  you  ever  hear  him  shout?  Did  you  ever  hear 
thunder?  —  for  there  is  a  pine  mountain  on  the  upper  Dela- 
ware that  out-roars,  in  a  winter  storm,  all  the  thunder  you 
ever  heard!  Stern,  deep,  awfully  deep,  that  roar  makes  the 
heart  quiver.  It  is  an  airqiinke  of  tremendous  power.  And  his 
single  voice  is  by  no  me:iiis  silvery  when  he  is  "  in  a  breeze."     When 


TREES.  211 

the  stern  \Tarrior-king  has  aroused  his  energies  to  meet  the  onslaught 
of  the  storm,  the  battle-cry  he  sends  down  the  wind  is  heard  above 
all  the  voices  of  the  greenwood.  His  robe  streams  out  like  a  banner, 
and  so  wild  does  he  look,  you  would  think  he  was  about  to  dash  him- 
self from  his  throne  of  rock  upon  the  valley  beneath.  But  no ;  his 
great  foot  grasps  more  closely  the  crag,  and  when,  after  a  while,  the 
tempest  leaves  him,  how  quietly  he  settles  to  his  repose !  He  adorns 
his  crown  with  a  rich  wreath  caught  from  the  sunset,  and  an  hour 
after,  he  wears  the  orbed  moon  as  a  splendid  jewel  upon  his  haughty 
brow.  The  scented  breeze  of  the  soft  evening  breathes  upon  him, 
and  the  grim  warrior-king  wakes  his  murmuring  lute,  and  oh !  such 
sounds  —  so  sweet,  so  soothing !  Years  that  have  passed  live  again 
in  the  music ;  tones  long  since  hushed  echo  once  more  in  the  heart ; 
faces  that  have  turned  to  dust  —  but  how  loved  in  the  old  time!  — 
glimmer  among  the  dusky  boughs ;  eyes  that  years  ago  closed  on 
earth  to  open  in  heaven  smile  kindly  upon  us.  We  lie  down  in  the 
dark  Bhadow  upon  the  mossy  roots  and  are  happy  —  happy  in  a  sad, 
sweet,  tender  tranquillity  that  purifies  the  soul,  and  while  it  makes  us 
coB^int  with  earth,  fills  us  with  love  for  heaven. 


girp  Ht  tht  §xM  d  '^fittU  |rMs/' 


BY      U.      W.     ROCKWELL. 


" "Wht,  he  but  sleeps: 

If  he  he  gone,  he  '11  make  his  grave  a  bed." 


Thou  art  gone  to  thy  rest  1  — like  the  wind  of  the  ocean, 
That  dies  on  the  breast  of  the  blue  heavmg  wave, 

So  with  thee  life  hath  passed  with  its  stormy  commotiou, 
And  the  last  beams  of  sunset  are  bright  on  thy  grave. 

Sweet  sunset!  how  oft  with  thy  radiant  fingers 
Thou  Shalt  touch  the  sweet  blossoms  we  strew  on  his  tomb, 

While  the  red-breast  near  by  in  the  forest-top  lingers, 
And  warbles  his  dkge  m  the  soft  evening  gloom ! 

Yet  it  is  not  unmeet  that  thou  com'st  near  his  dwelling, 
O'erarch'd  by  the  sweet  sod,  so  fresh  and  so  green, 

"While  the  mild  evening  wnd  from  the  valley  is  swelling, 
And  the  haze-mantled  forests  look  down  on  the  scene. 

Nor  unwelcome  thy  song,  little  bird  in  the  willow ! 

■VTho  sing'st  here  so  sweetly  at  night-fall  and  dawn; 
For  a  fair  head  below  lieth  cold  on  its  pillow, 

And  one  half  of  hfe's  glory  and  beauty  is  gone ! 

Sing  on,  happy  bu-d !  —  while  the  night,  fast  descending, 
Shuts  in  on  the  forest,  and  deepens  its  gloom : 

The  sigh  of  the  breeze  with  thy  sweet  warble  blending 
Sliall  make  me  still  linger  and  muse  at  his  toir>b. 


220  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Oh  I  wliat  in  my  heart  do  these  voices  awaken, 
That  bids  me  look  up  from  life's  toil  and  unrest 

To  that  home  where  the  weary,  and  sad,  and  forsaken, 
Are  glad  in  the  beautiful  land  of  the  blest? 

And  why,  when  each  day  brings  a  darker  to-morrow, 
Doth  the  path  seem  so  bright  that  my  darlmg  hath  trod 

If  it  bo  not  that  we,  in  hfe's  moments  of  sorrow. 
Learn  to  humble  the  spirit  and  lean  upon  God? 


%\t  Muk  k  f  itttaturt 


BY      SAMUEL     8.    OOX. 


It  is  an  anachronism  to  date  the  connection  of  "  Old  Knick"  with 
literature  from  the  establishment  of  the  Magazine,  which  is  thus  play- 
fully personified  by  its  familiar  readers.  Long  before  the  brothers 
Clark  rescued  "  Old  Knick"  from  his  bad  fame,  and  gave  him  credit 
and  character,  there  were  intimate  relations  existing  between  the 
genius  of  type  and  the  genius  of  "  Knick." 

Our  votive  offering  upon  the  shrine  where  so  many  flowers,  so 
much  fruitage,  and  such  grateful  incense  has  been  so  often  offered 
before,  and  malgre  the  terrors  of  the  name,  offered  by  such  good  and 
genial  souls,  shall  be  an  examination  into  this  relationship  between 
the  aforesaid  genii.  Before  we  have  finished  our  analysis,  it  will  be 
found  that  "  Old  Knick"  has  had  more  to  do  with  human  literature 
than  we  are  apt  to  imagine,  and  that  without  him  much  of  its  mirth 
and  more  of  its  tragedy  would  be  wanting. 

If  we  are  to  believe  the  authentic  records  of  the  past,  we  shall  find 
him,  in  the  earliest  times,  inaugurating  the  typographical  art.  "  He 
is  in  league  with  the  devil,"  said  the  learned  Sorbonne  at  Paris,  of 
Dr.  Faust,  who  had,  under  pretence  of  copying  the  Bible,  sold  the 
first  printed  edition  to  the  Parisians  at  sixty  crowns  a  volume ;  while 
those  "  slow  coaches,"  the  clerks,  sold  manuscript  copies  at  five  huiv 
dred !  And  the  astonished  professors,  not  dreaming  of  printing,  and 
not  considering  the  inconsistency  of  the  devil  becoming  a  pioneer  col- 
porteur, examined  the  quickly-produced  copies,  all  minutely  alike,  and 
declared,  "  Surely  the  devil  is  in  this  marvellous  matter !"  And  when 
Faust  lowered  his  price,  and  multiplied  his  volumes,  and  as  his  r^^. 


222  THE    ATLANTIC    SOL'VENIR. 

ink  was  observed  to  be  peculiarly  sanguine,  they  thought  it  best  to 
inform  the  magistrate  against  him,  as  a  magician,  who,  with  his  own 
blood,  and  by  Satanic  help,  had  multiplied  Bibles  beyond  the  power 
of  human  handicraft.  And  the  magistrate,  with  the  profundity  of 
Justice  Shallow,  found  that  he  was  in  league  with  the  devil,  and 
ordered  that  he  be  made  a  public  bonfire.  Faust  saved  himself  by 
revealing  his  art  to  the  Parisian  parliament.  The  decision  of  Justice 
Shallow  was  not  wholly  in  error.  There  is  much  beside  his  judgment 
to  confirm  the  tradition.  At  this  day  there  is  none  to  deny  that  the 
devil  has  much  to  do  with  printed  thought ;  if  not  with  its  form  and 
type,  certainly  with  its  essence  and  spirit. 

This  must  be  so  necessarily.  So  long  as  the  drama  of  life  alter- 
nates between  good  and  evil,  will  the  devil  be  a  star  among  the 
actors.  Being  the  principle  of  evil,  he  will  have  more  or  less  to  do 
with  human  nature,  until  that  principle  loses  its  place  in  the  heart  and 
its  power  over  the  head.  It  is  a  restless  principle ;  ever  busy  at  the 
loom  of  life,  weaving  into  the  tissue  its  sombre  strands,  and  unrolling 
to  the  gaze  its  fantastic  figures,  which  in  letters  become  the  mirror  of 
human  vicissitude. 

As  our  imperfect  nature  has  no  exemption  from  its  temptations, 
so  every  department  of  literature  bears  evidence  of  its  influence.  Is 
it  the  lyric  gush  1  The  principle  of  evil  sparkles  in  the  ruby  wine, 
and  melts  with  the  amorous  eye.  Is  it  the  stately  drama?  It  plays 
the  prompter,  and  puts  on  the  mask.  Is  it  the  grandeur  of  the  epic? 
It  gives  unity  to  the  action,  of  which  it  is  the  hero ! 

To  analyze  this  element,  it  may  be  necessary  — 

First,  to  define  what  is  meant  by  the  Satanic  element ; 

Secondly,  to  trace  it  to  its  source  and  display  its  greatest  exam- 
ples in  literature ; 

And  lastly,  to  discuss  the  good  taste  of  their  appearance  in  so 
notorious  a  form. 

I.  It  is  hardly  necessary  that  I  should  give  a  formal  introduction 
to  a  personage  so  well  known  as  the  subject  of  my  paper.  Most  of 
my  readers  are  acquainted  with  him,  at  least  by  reputation.  It  may 
not  be  necessary  to  search  books  to  define  him.     lie  can  be  found 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  223 

when  and  where  you  are  disposed  to  look  for  him.  Paracelsus  stiffly 
maintains  that  the  air  in  summer  is  not  so  full  of  flies  as  it  is  with  his 
presence.  The  odium  which  hangs  most  heavily  upon  him  is  the 
odium  theologicum.  We  do  not  propose  to  take  this  view  of  him, 
except  so  far  as  it  may  throw  light  upon  his  literary  uses.  A  theolo- 
gical view  might  include  his  abuses  rather  than  his  uses. 

It  may  be  more  original,  if  not  so  interesting,  to  consider  the 
devil  as  of  some  use  in  the  world.  That  his  unprepossessing  features 
have  often  inoculated  the  young  with  wholesome  fear  will  even  yet 
be  stoutly  maintained.  Ever  since  the  days  of  Luther,  the  catechisms 
of  Germany  have  been  adorned  with  a  frontispiece,  representing  him 
with  the  appendages  of  horn,  hoof,  and  forked  tail ;  and  this  was  one 
of  the  modes  employed  for  teaching  youth  correct  theological  notions. 
But  the  march  of  intellect,  which  is  said  to  lick  all  the  world  into 
shape,  has  licked  the  devil  out.  His  horns  are  no  longer  a  dilemma 
to  the  sinner ;  his  claws  no  longer  reach  out  after  the  wicked ;  and 
his  tail  is  no  longer  unfolded  to  harrow  up  the  soul !  Our  intellect- 
ual age  has  acted  upon  him  as  the  crowing  of  the  cock  is  said  to  act 
upon  ghosts  —  the  visible  presence  vanishes  before  daylight.  But  it  is 
unphilosophical  to  affirm  that  he  is  not,  because  his  visible  form  has 
vanished.  He  may  make  his  tracks  in  other  people's  shoes,  and  in 
the  multiplicity  of  his  engagements  he  does  not  always  cover  them. 
We  may  tell,  from  the  slime  he  leaves  behind,  that  a  serpent  went 
that  way,  and  not  less  certainly  that  the  devil  has  been  about  by  cer- 
tain actions  in  human  society.  His  horns  are  hid  under  many  a 
judge's  wig ;  his  hoof  is  pinched  by  many  a  patent-leather  boot ;  and 
his  tail  concealed  by  costliest  broadcloth.  And,  my  fine  lady,  he 
does  not  disdain  to  hide  in  your  dimpled  smile,  to  wanton  with  your 
ringlets,  glitter  in  your  ear-drops,  nestle  in  your  mufl",  and  shoot  his 
darts  in  your  glances. 

He  has  no  particular  profession  or  trade,  though  he  can  lend  a 
hand  to  all.  He  preaches,  though  he  has  never  taken  orders.  He  is 
no  lawyer,  but  who  can  sophisticate  like  him  1  He  is  no  doctor,  but 
he  often  kills.  He  is  no  mechanic,  but  he  glories  in  a  glowing  forge, 
where  implements  of  manifold  deviltry  are  turned  out.  He  is  no 
broker,  but  none  of  your  old,  sleek,  plump  cent-per-cents  has  such 


224  THE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEMR. 

razors  for  so  close  a  shave.  Ho  is  no  editor,  but  every  one  has  hearJ 
of  the  Satanic  press.  He  is  no  tailor,  but  ever  since  he  sat  cross 
legged  over  the  first  suit  of  fig-leaves,  he  has  had  a  remarjcable  run  in 
furnishing  the  disguises  in  which  cant,  humbug,  duplicity,  and  villainy 
appear.     He  is  not  in  the  mercantile  line,  strictly,  but  yet  he  is 

"  a  merchant,  too, 


Who  sells  by  the  shortened  yard ; 
"Who  keeps  his  accounts  in  a  way  of  his  own. 
When  he  sells  two  ounces,  he  sets  three  down, 
And  charges  two  shillmgs  as  half-a-crown, 
And  proves  by  his  clerk  't  is  true  I" 

In  fact,  he  attends  to  no  body's  business,  only  because  no  body's  busi- 
ness  is  every  body's  business.  The  whirr  of  his  unseen  wings,  as  he 
goes  skurrying  through  the  air,  may  be  heard  at  any  time  by  any 
one  who  chooses  to  listen  !  Any  one  who  is  after  the  devil  will  find 
*he  devil  after  him. 

To  define  this  ubiquitous  personage  is  as  difficult  as  to  "  paint 
chaos,  to  take  a  portrait  of  Proteus,  or  to  catch  the  figure  of  the 
fleeting  air,"  which  is  his  principality. 

But  that  would  be  a  poor  transcript  of  human  thought  in  which 
.,his  element  of  evil  were  omitted. 

Whether  its  introduction  into  literature  has  been  of  any  benefit 
to  our  race,  we  do  not  now  consider.  Even  in  poetry  and  fiction, 
familiarity  with  its  presence  is  by  no  means  to  be  coveted.  If  the 
devil  is  truly  represented,  he  must  be  shown  as  a  fiend  of  tact  and 
talent ;  and  then  he  is  as  certain  to  excite  admiration  as  he  is  to 
blaspheme ;  and  if,  as  an  amiable  devil,  why  the  letter  devil  he  is 
made  the  worse  devil  he  is ;  for  his  character  then  would  bo  alto- 
gether mistaken.  If  the  bad  passions  are  sought  to  be  represented 
in  him,  if  he  is  portrayed  as  one  seeking  whom  ho  may  doludo  and 
devour,  there  arc  enough  of  his  clan  in  the  human  mould,  which  the 
varied  pen  of  literature  has  delineated,  and  may  yet  delineate. 

The  spirit  of  evil  may  as  well  be  illustrated  indirectly  in  the 
human  character  as  in  the  direct  Satanic  character,  for  the  reason  that 
the  old  rogue  appears  mcjrc  at  home  when  abroad,  more  easy  in  a 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  225 

counterfeit  than  in  his  genuine  shape.  But  whether  in  the  one  or  the 
other ;  whether  in  his  own  dun  hide  the  devil  plays  his  part  before 
the  "  bacon-brained"  boors  of  the  middle  ages,  in  the  "  Mysteries  ;" 
or  whether,  as  Appolyon,  he  wrestles  with  Bunyan  ;  or,  as  Astorath, 
assaults  Saint  Anthony ;  or  plays  the  mischief  with  Faustus  in  Mar- 
lowe ;  or  fills  Dante's  Inferno  with  his  form ;  or  sits  at  the  dreaming 
ear  of  our  first  mother  with  Milton,  whispering  his  wily  wickedness ; 
or  hovers  over  Madrid  on  the  mantle  of  Asmodeus ;  or  wings  his 
way  with  Byron's  Cain  to  the  nethermost  abysses  to  look  upon  pre- 
Adamite  phantoms  and  the  chaos  of  death ;  or,  with  Goethe,  dances 
through  the  Walpurgis  Night  among  the  witches  of  the  Brocken ;  or 
blurts  out  crazed  blasphemy  with  Bailey's  Festus  ;  or  lures  Beauty  to 
a  noble  sacrifice  in  Longfellow's  Golden  Legend;  he  is  not  more 
certainly  the  principle  of  evil,  and  the  antagonist  of  good,  than  when 
he  plays  the  hypocrite  with  Joseph  Surface,  murders  noble  natures 
with  the  honesty  of  lago,  harps  on  his  humility  with  Heep,  or  em- 
bodies the  intense  badness  of  Jeffrey  Puncheons,  or  lubricates  the 
downward  way  with  Oily  Gammon,  or  teases  and  cheats  simplicity 
with  Becky  Sharp,  or  dishes  out  to  poor  school-boys  molasses  and 
brimstone  with  the  ladle  of  Mrs.  Squeers ! 

But  my  subject  is  large  enough  when  limited  to  the  analysis  of 
the  Satanic  element  in  literature,  where  Satan  appears  in  person,  and 
not  by  proxy.  The  consideration  of  the  use  made  of  him  by  Dante, 
Marlowe,  Milton,  Goethe,  Byron,  Southey,  and  Bailey,  will  afford 
theme  enough.  Its  discussion  will  imply  an  examination  into  the 
original  suggestions  which  these  authors  profited  by  in  the  delineation 
of  their  several  devils. 

The  Mosaic  history  of  the  evil  spirit,  his  form  in  Eden,  and  the 

consequences  of  his  temptations  are  familiar.     They  are  the  germ 

out  of  which  nearly  all  diabolic  literature  has  grown.     Wherever 

introduced,  the   arch-rebel  tempts  man  to  his  fall  by  the  alluring 

fruits  of  pleasure  and  knowledge.     Another  Biblical  account,  nearly 

contemporaneous  with  that  of  Moses,  is  that  in  which  Satan  is  rej^re- 

sentcd  as  asking  of  God  the  privilege  to  tempt  Job.     It  represents 

Satan,  not  as  a  fallen  rebel,  but  as  a  tempter ;  the  more  potent 

because  authorized  by  Jehovah  ;  or,  as  Bailey  expresses  it,  as  the 

16 


226  TOE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

shadow  of  God  himself.  "  There  was  a  day  when  the  sons  of  God 
came  to  present  themselves  Ix'furc  the  Lord,  and  Satan  came  also." 
He  had  been  walking  to  and  fro  upon  the.earth,  and  having  scofTed 
at  Job's  mtegrity,  the  Lord  said  unto  Satan,  "  Behold,  he  is  in  thy 
hand."  This  relation  of  Job  has  been  made  the  scape-goat  for  the 
bold  blasphemy  of  Byron,  the  insane  licentiousness  of  Bailey,  and 
the  scofiing  jeers  of  Goethe. 

The  nn^vritten  literature  of  the  earliest  ages  and  rudest  nations 
has  contained  traditions  as  to  the  evil  spirit.  He  takes  various  forms 
and  characteristics,  according  to  the  physical  environment  or  condition 
of  the  people.  In  the  Indian  mythology,  the  dominion  of  the  Uni- 
verse was  divided,  and  even  the  powers  of  darkness  had  their  castes. 
The  Indian  Trinity  consisted  of  Brahma,  the  Creator ;  Vishnu,  the 
Preserver  ;  and  Sheva,  the  Destroyer.  Sheva  was  represented  as  a 
black  figure,  with  a  terrible  countenance.  He  is  the  only  devil  whom 
literature  has  united  in  the  holy  bands  of  matrimony.  If  he  is  such 
a  monster  devil,  what  must  his  wife  be  ?  Her  name  was  Goorga. 
She  was  quite  as  black  as  her  amiable  husband,  with  forehead  and 
eyebrows  dripping  blood.  The  feminine  taste  is  displayed  by  a 
necklace  of  skulls,  and  ear-rings  of -human  bodies.  At  her  zone  hang 
the  hands  of  the  giants  whom  she  had  slain.  Quite  an  eligible  match 
for  Sheva,  and  not  unsuitable  for  any  devil ! 

The  tropical  sun  of  Africa  dnguorreotyped  him  in  blackest  shades 
as  a  divine  devil,  whose  worship  even  yet  holds  the  swart  Ethiop  in 
thrall.  In  Scandinavia  the  grim  spectres  of  the  misty  North  were 
servitors  of  the  Great  Evil  One,  whom  to  propitiate  was  accounted 
wise  devotion.  The  power  of  evil  was  very  naturally  feared  by  the 
savage,  and  his  religious  instincts  led  him  to  give  hostages  and  pay 
homage  to  an  enemy  more  formidable  than  the  lion  of  the  jungle  and 
more  insidious  than  the  serpent  of  the  fens. 

This  profane  idea  of  the  devil  is  not  unlike  that  of  the  more 
refined  nations  of  antiquity,  of  which  it  is  the  prototype. 

The  Greek  classics  might  as  well  be  without  their  heroes  as  their 
Hades.  Homer  led  Ulysses  into  the  realms  of  Pluto.  Thither 
Euripidi's,  in  the  Alcestis,  and  Hercules  Furens,  represents  his  heroes 
•  • 'l'W(viulin£;.     Sophocles  has  shown  tho  son  of  Jupiter  anil  Alee 


THE    SATANIO    IN    LITERATURE.  227 

ft 

mene  carrying  off  the  three-headed  dog  of  hell.  Similar  marvellous 
narratives  formed  the  subject  of  two  of  the  lost  plays  of  ^Eschylus, 
and  the  soul  of  his  grand  tragedy,  the  sublimest  effort  of  the  Grecian 
tragic  muse,  is  the  man-loving  and  Jove-despising  Prometheus,  with 
his  will  of  adamant,  unmoved  amidst  the  thundei's  and  lightnings  of 
Almighty  wrath ! 

We  find  the  prototype  of  Milton's  Satan  in  this  sullen  and 
implacable  hater  of  heaven,  ^schylus  had  a  genius  for  painting  with 
a  tei'rible  grace.  lie  delighted  to  represent  those  old  demi-gods  — 
those  dark  powers  of  primitive  nature,  who,  warring  against  the 
divine  order,  had  been  driven  into  Tartarus,  beneath  a  better-regu- 
lated world.  The  emperor  among  Titans,  even  as  Satan  among  the 
fallen  angels,  was  Prometheus,  half-fiend,  yet  benefactor  of  the 
creature,  though  invincible  in  his  endless  hatred  of  the  Creator. 
The  Titan  suffers,  with  what  a  hopeless  agony  !  yet  proud  above  all 
pain  —  chained  to  the  naked  rock  on  the  shore  of  the  encircling 
ocean,  conscious  that  he  holds  the  secret  on  which  rests  the  Al- 
mighty's throne ;  and  whether  silent  in  the  energy  of  his  will,  or 
giving  it  expression  to  the^  condoling  sea-nymphs  and  the  wandering 
lo ;  and  at  last,  when  still  braving  the  threats  of  Jove,  and  amidst 
the  storms  of  his  unappeasable  vengeance,  he  is  swallowed  up  in 
the  chaotic  abyss,  still  defiant,  still  exultant ! 

Some  have  found  in  this  demi-Satan  a  prototype  of  the  sacrifice 
of  the  Saviour.  Prometheus  suffered  to  give  man  perfection ;  in 
this  he  was  like  our  Saviour.  But  he  did  this  contrary  to  the  will 
of  the  Omxipotent  ;  and  here  the  comparison  fails.  In  one  case  the 
throes  of  nature  were  sympathetic  with  the  sacrifice  of  Deity.  In  the 
other,  they  were  Heaven's  implements  of  torture  !  The  resemblance 
between  the  chained  Titan  and  the  flillen  son  of  the  morning  is  so 
striking  that  Milton  must  have  taken  it  as  his  model  of  Satanic  intel- 
lectual energy. 

The  spirit  of  the  Prometheus  may  be  found  lurking  in  nearly 
every  mythology  and  religion. 

Although  the  province  of  the  devil  was  well  defined  and  limited 
in  the  Christian  dispensation,  yet  even  in  its  earlier  literature  we  find 
a  sect,  who,  having  taken  Prometheus  as  a  type,  erected  a  throne  or. 


228  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVEKIR. 

earth  for  the  power  of  hill.  The  Gnostics  of  the  second  century 
held  the  doctrine  of  two  i)rinci]>ks,  from  which  proceeded  all  things ; 
one  a  wise  and  benevolent  Deity  ;  ana  the  other,  a  principle  essen- 
tially evil,  Elxai  and  Saturninus  propagated  these  doctrines  in 
Syria,  and  in  the  Greek  language,  and  instituted  an  order  whose 
tenets  utterly  degraded  the  religion  of  Curist.  Valentine  of  Egypt 
formed  them  into  a  system,  and  evoked  out  of  it,  by  some  fanciful 
angelic  marriages,  a  Superior  Power,  called  Demiurgus,  from  whose 
forming  hand  our  globe  and  our  race  issued,  and  to  whom  men  were 
enslaved  by  their  evil  passions.  Christ  came  to  this  world  to  redeem 
it  from  Demiurgus,  and  the  contest  was  to  rage  until  Demiurgus  was 
dethroned. 

But  another  Gnostic  branch  held  that  the  serpent  by  which  our 
first  parents  were  deceived  was  either  Christ  himself  or  Sophia,  the 
perfect  wisdom  concealed  under  the  serpent's  form ;  and  serpents 
became  with  them  objects  of  Christian  worship  !  The  sophistry  of 
Greece  was  thus  renewed ;  the  distinctions  between  good  and  evil 
were  brushed  away,  and  an  admirable  hint  given  to  the  nineteenth- 
century  lawyer,  Bailey,  of  the  Inner  Temple,  for  his  Festus,  in  which 
he  beatifies  the  Gnostic  vision,  and  makes  the  Deity  and  the  devil 
to  be  one ! 

In  the  dark  ages  the  devil  assimilated  himself  to  the  gross  imagi- 
nation of  the  ignorant,  and  walked  forth  in  all  the  material  deformity 
of  hoof,  horns,  claws,  and  tail.  The  medium  by  which  he  was 
exhibited  was  the  theologic  drama  called  the  Mysteries.  The  pil- 
grims from  the  Holy  Land  were  the  actors.  In  later  times,  and  even 
up  to  the  Reformation,  a  higher  form  of  these  mysteries  obtained, 
and  greater  attention  was  given  to  their  composition.  In  these  plays 
the  devil  was  a  fiivorite,  for  he  always  raised  the  laugh.  This  theo- 
logic stage  usually  consisted  of  three  platforms,  and  the  devil  had 
the  lowest,  the  angels  the  next,  and  God  the  highest.  On  one  side  of 
the  lower  platform  was  a  ya\niing  cave,  from  which  the  devil 
ascended  to  delight  and  instruct  the  spectators.  Never  a  king  or 
a  baron  gave  to  his  subjects  or  retainers  n  gala  where  this  rude  repre- 
sentation was  omitted.  Indeed,  the  devil  became  so  common  that 
men  ceased  to  regard  him  as  other  than  a  jolly  good  fellow ;  and  the 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  229 

actor  who  could  growl  his  part  most  demoniacally  won  the  applause  of 
the  men  and  the  smiles  of  the  women. 

The  relics  of  this  age  are  yet  to  be  seen  in  Europe.  Many  an 
ancient  minster  or  chapel  has  its  images  over  the  door-way  carved  in 
stone,  bedaubed  in  canvas,  or  illuminated  in  missal,  representing  the 
laughing  prince  of  perdition.  I  remember  one  in  Fribourg,  Switzer- 
land, where  the  devil  appears  with  the  head  of  a  hog,  and  a  basket- 
ful of  sinners  at  his  back.  He  weiglis  them  in  the  scales,  and  while 
good  angels  in  vain  strive  to  make  tlie  beam  kick  in  fovor  of  heaven, 
the  satellites  of  sin  strive  on  the  other  side,  and  that  successfully. 
When  weighed,  they  are  shovelled  into  a  seething  caldron,  where 
grinning  imps  stir  them  into  a  hotch-potch  of  slab  hell-broth,  with  an 
industry  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  and  an  indelicacy  which  would 
shock  a  Parisian  cuisine. 

The  coarseness  of  the  dark  ages  disappeared,  and  with  it  this 
ribald  devil.  But  in  cultivated  minds  there  still  lingered  a  terrible 
form  of  evil.  It  was  a  reality  even  as  late  as  Luther  —  a  reality  at 
which  the  burly  reformer  hurled  his  ink-stand  in  the  Wartburg,  In 
the  fourteenth  century,  hell  and  purgatory  were  realities,  ever  present 
to  the  eye  of  the  Christian.  The  vices  and  follies  of  men  had  run 
riot  with  a  prodigality  which  called  for  a  retribution ;  and  the  stern 
justice  of  Dante's  intellect  created  an  Inferno,  where,  with  dreadful 
distinctness,  grim  and  gibbering  fiends  should  add  terror  to  the  tor- 
ments of  the  damned.  At  this  time  learning  was  just  opening  its 
way  out  of  the  cloister  to  the  sun-shine  ;  statuary  began  its  mission 
by  carving  a  Madonna  or  a  crucifix  ;  painting  colored  a  missal,  as 
initiatory  to  the  frescoes  which  now  glorify  the  domes  of  the  Italian 
basilicas ;  eloquence,  waiting  its  Luther  and  Erasmus,  spake  in  pane- 
gyric of  some  favorite  saint ;  and  history  toyed  at  legends  prepara- 
tory to  her  more  serious  duties :  then  arose  Dante,  and  with  the 
same,  power  with  which  he  dared  to  scale  a  heaven  of  bliss,  descended 
to  the  abodes  of  despair. 

Yet  even  his  retributive  morality,  elevated  for  his  age,  partakes 
somewhat  of  its  coarseness.  In  his  description  of  Satan  he  seems  to 
have  been  stricken  dumb  by  the  dread  apparition,  so  that  his  pen 
trembles  in  view  of  its  awful  office.     The  few  etchings  of  Satan 


230  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

which  ho  gives,  might  have  been  then  considered  as  sublime  at  the 
Florentine  court,  and  would  be  now,  had  not  Milton  far  outstretched 
him  in  the  grandeur  and  boldness  of  the  vision,  and  had  not  some  of 
the  features  been  so  grotesque  as  to  be  laughable.  The  first  observes 
Satan  standing  mid-breast  in  the  icy  lake  of  hell,  his  black  banners 
before  him,  and  a  cloud  of  night  around  him.  Dante  is  in  stature 
more  like  a  giant  than  the  giants  are  his  arms ! 

"  If  he  were  beautiful 
As  he  is  hideous  now,  and  yet  did  dare 

To  scowl  upon  his  Maker well  from  him 

May  all  our  miserj-  flow "' 

He  has  three  faces;  one  of  vermilion,  representing  anger;  one 
between  wan  and  yellow,  representing  envy  ;  the  third  black,  repre- 
senting gloom.  Vast  wings  shoot  forth  under  his  shoulders,  made, 
like  those  of  bats,  without  plumes,  yet  larger  than  any  sails  upon  the 
sea!  He  flaps  them,  and  three  cold  winds  come  forth,  freezing 
Cocytus  to  its  depth.  His  six  eyes  weep  tears  of  bloody  foam.  At 
every  mouth  he  champs  a  sinner,  bruising  them  as  with  ponderous 
engine.  One  of  these  victims,  honored  as  a  special  mouthful,  is 
Judas  Iscariot,  the  skin  of  whose  back  is  stripped  up  occasionally,  by 
way  of  variety.  No  dead  Judas  either,  but  extremely  vital,  for  we 
aie  told  that  while  his  head  is  in  the  Satanic  jaw  he  plies  his  feet 
without !  The  last  view  which  Dante  has,  places  his  lordship  upside 
.down  to  his  vision,  which  position  certainly  takes  nothing  from  the 
terrible  grotesqueness  of  the  scene  ! 

But  as  without  the  rude  Mysteries  we  would  have  had  no  Dante, 
so  without  Dante  we  should  have  had  no  Miltonic  Satan.  The  seed 
of  one  age  becomes  the  blossom  and  fruit  of  another;  for  the  black 
art  of  the  middle  ages  gave  Goethe  the  seminal  idea  of  his  groat 
drama. 

The  revival  of  learning  found  Europe  full  of  legends  of  devilish 
tricks  with  witches,  wizards,  warlocks,  conjurers,  magicians,  astrolo- 
gers, and  others  of  that  ilk.  How  men  and  women  walked  invisil)ly, 
rode  in  tll(^  air  on  broomsticks,  gibbered  a  universal  language,  raised 
winds,  disturbed  tin*  dead,  and  titrincnfi'd  the  living  —  arc  they  not 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATUKE.  231 

written  in  the  black-letter  folios  of  the  Magi,  seldom  to  he  conned 
seriously  in  this  matter-of-fact  age  ?  It  may  now  be  thought  very 
undignified  in  Satan  to  condescend  to  such  hocus-pocus  whimsies  as  the 
evil  eye,  magic  circles,  tipping  tables,  cabalistic  words,  changing  a 
truss  of  hay  into  a  horse,  producing  the  phantom  of  a  deer-hunt  in  a 
banqueting  hall,  saying  the  Lord's  Prayer  backward,  and  the  like. 
That  credulous  age  has  gone  by,  and  we,  vaunting  our  science^  sneer 
at  it;  yes,  we,  in  this  age  of  table-tapping  spiritualism!  Our  learned 
judges  who  ridicule  Lord  Hale  for  his  faith  in  witchcraft ;  our  savans 
who  smile  at  the  idea  of  the  protective  horse-shoe,  who  can  not  see 
the  peculiar  virtue  in  hanging  a  witch  with  a  green  withe,  instead  of 
a  rope,  swallow  whole  tomes  of  gibberish  revelations  from  silly  and 
lieing  spirits,  rapping  out  their  ridicidous  fanfironade  on  varnished 
mahogany !  There  was  something  horribly  definite  in  the  shapes 
which  peopled  the  medieval  imagination.  After  beating  around  litera- 
ture for  dim  intimations  of  spiritual  devils,  it  is  refreshing  to  come 
upon  the  devil  in  fact  and  in  form.  Those  two  great  eyes  stare  at 
you ;  the  flame  which  breathes  from  mouth  and  nostril  glares  upon 
you.  There  is  the  snaky  hair  and  hardened  horn,  the  dim  hide  and 
shaggy  back,  the  divided  hoof  and  double  vibrating  tongue,  the  brim- 
stone sm6ll  and  candles  burning  blue,  as  they  wink  and  flicker.  The 
air  grows  hot,  the  heart  beats  as  it  burns,  and  the  hair  of  the  flesh 
stands  up,  while  in  icy  rills  sensation  chills  to  the  bone  !  Oh  !  there 
was  in  this  a  sturdy  belief,  unruffled  by  science,  quite  ravishing  to 
transcendental  souls.  There  was  then  a  happy  propensity,  especially 
among  the  ignorant,  to  resolve  every  thing  strange  and  wonderful 
into  devilism.  A  solution  so  convenient  will  commend  itself  to  our 
rapping  circles,  as  well  for  its  simplicity  as  for  its  agreement  with 
the  maxim,  that  where  the  marvel  is  unaccountable,  the  devil  is  in  it. 
Beside,  if  not  true,  it  is  as  good  a  solution  as  any  yet  submitted. 
This  is  the  way  the  ignorant  people  of  the  fifteenth  century  resolved 
all  the  wonders  of  magic  and  the  results  of  alchemy.  The  wooden 
pigeon  of  Architus,  the  brazen  serpent  of  Boetius,  which  hissed,  the 
golden  birds  of  Leo,  which  sang,  and  the  brazen  head  of  Friar  Bacon, 
which  spoke,  were  evidences  of  Satanic  connection.  The  scholars  anr^ 
chemists  of  that  time  did  not  feel  indignant,  either,  at  the  alli;^' 


232  THE   ATLANTIC   SOUVENIR. 

for  many  of  them,  bedevilled  by  the  madness  which  vanity,  seclusion 
and  the  fumes  of  an  indigestible  learning  created,  gave  out  in  speeches 
that,  in  their  transmutation  of  metals,  and  in  their  search  after  the 
elixir  and  the  philosopher's  stone,  the  assistance  of  his  nether  majesty 
had  been  politely  tendered. 

It  was  out  of  this  credulity  that  Dr.  Faustus,  the  sorcerer,  became 
tfo  intimate  with  the  devil.  Marlowe,  one  of  Shakspeare's  contempo 
raries,  first  fixed  this  legend  in  the  drama.  But  his  Faust  was  a  vul- 
gar sorcerer,  tempted  by  a  poor  devil  to  sell  his  soul  for  the  ordinary 
price  of  sensual  pleasure  and  earthly  glory ;  and  who,  when  the  for 
foit  comes  to  be  exacted,  shrinks  with  very  unhcroie  whining. 

Many  German  writers  have  attempted  the  same  legend:  they 
failed.  It  was  reserved  for  the  great  leader  of  the  German  choir,  to 
inspire,  with  perpetual  life,  this  thrilling  tradition.  Goethe  seized 
upon  it,  not  to  gratify  the  curious,  but  to  establish  a  truce  between 
the  ideal  of  his  soul  and  the  actual  of  his  life,  which  elements  had 
long  warred  in  his  bosom  with  no  determinate  purpose  or  goodly 
end!  He  travels  with  his  devil  along  the  dusty  pathways  of  life, 
penetrates  into  its  purlieus  of  vice,  even  becomes  licentious,  blasphe- 
mous, and  vulgar  in  holding  the  mirror  up  to  its  changeful  scenes, 
revels  in  the  wine-cups  of  the  Rhine,  and  runs  the  whole  round  of 
human  pleasure  and  knowledge;  but  at  last,  guided  by  the  gentle 
spirit  of  Margaret,  whose  excellence,  innocence.  Christian  ftuth,  and 
sensitive  purity  could  not  bear  even  the  disguised  presence  of  evil, 
seeks  in  her  an  ideal  so  ethereally  pure  and  consolingly  serene,  even 
amid  the  prisons  and  tortures  of  earth,  that  the  seraphs  of  God  wel- 
come her  with  transporting  minstrelsy  on  the  golden  lyres,  as  if  she 
were  the  very  essence  of  Gonhood  and  grace !  Tliis  ideal  is  the  object 
of  the  devil's  hate.  Faust  would  woo  her  to  himself;  but  Heaven  at 
last  divides  them ;  for  Faust  hath  sold  himself  to  the  devil,  and  the 
sweet  presence  of  Margaret  could  never  dwell,  save  in  unrest,  near 
the  dark  companion  of  her  love. 

The  story  of  Faust  is  every  one's  own  experience.  We  burn  for 
more  pleasure,  knowledge,  and  power.  The  fiend  promises  them  if 
we  will  sell  to  him  our  souls,  and  then  the  strife  begins. 

Solomon  has  bc-i-n  eallfd  llie  Faust  <»f  Scripture.      He  foinid  the 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  233 

vanity  of  pleasure,  knowledge,  and  power,  when  he  had  become  their 
bondman.  "A  genuine  and  generous  attachment  might  have  placed 
happiness  by  means  of  the  affections  once  more  within  reach  of  the 
oriental  monarch.  But  the  presence  of  three  hundred  wives  and 
seven  hundred  concubines  deprived  him  of  even  that  contingency." 
Mephistopheles,  the  caustic  and  cynical  voluptuary,  could  have  wished 
for  no  better  subject.  "  If  an  overgrown  library  can  produce  a  sur- 
feit of  knowledge,  an  overstocked  seraglio  will  more  certainly  bring 
an  atrophy  of  the  affections.  When  reason,  feeling,  and  conscience 
are  ill  at  ease,  to  fall  back  upon  sensual  indulgence  for  a  remedy  is  to 
take  a  roll  in  the  gutter  by  way  of  a  medicated  mud-bath  !" 

To  this  recreation  the  sated  scholar,  Faust,  is  invited  by  Mephis- 
topheles, and  in  the  course  of  their  companionship,  the  character  of 
Mephistopheles,  as  "the  best  and  only  genuine  devil  of  modern 
times,"  is  revealed.     It  is  this  character  we  now  propose  to  discuss. 

Mej)histopheles  is  not  the  devil  of  horn  and  hoof;  for  he  expressly 
repudiates  the  use  of  such  signs  of  his  calling.  He  says  of  these 
appendages,  that  they  would  prejudice  him  in  society;  shrewdly 
implying  that  he  could  get  into  many  a  man's  graces  in  a  fashionable 
doublet  who  would  cut  his  acquaintance  if  he  swished  a  tail !  Carlyle 
has  said,  "  Goethe's  devil  is  a  cultivated  personage,  acquainted  with 
modern  sciences ;  he  sneers  at  witchcraft  and  the  black  art  while 
employing  them."  He  has  the  manners  of  your  modern  gentleman ; 
can  swagger  and  debate,  drink  and  poetize,  swear  and  pray,  smoke 
and  philosophize.  He  is  a  diplomatist,  and  can  lie  with  "distin- 
guished consideration."  He  is  a  politician,  and  can  talk  and  trim  in 
a  bar-room  with  as  easy  a  tact  as  in  the  study  of  the  scholar.  He  is 
a  sneering,  scoffing  devil,  sharp  at  sarcasm,  quick  to  the  ridiculous, 
appreciative  of  the  rascally,  loves  a  lie  as  an  Englishman  does  beef, 
or  a  Spaniard  a  bull-fight ;  and  has  altogether  the  coolest  inventive 
malignity,  mingled  with  the  most  infernal  meanness  ever  embodied  in 
literature.  He  is  perfectly  at  home  in  a  pew,  can  say  most  gracefully 
his  grace,  and  dusts  his  knees  after  devotion  with  great  demureness. 
He  believes  in  himself,  and  is  true  to  no  one  else  but  himself,  which 
makes  him  consistently  flilse  to  all. 

His  first  appearance  when  he  asks  the  Lord,  with  great  self  com 


234  THE   ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

placency,  leave  to  guide  Faust  in  his  own  way,  and  offers  to  bet  with 
the  Almighty  that  he  will  win,  is  about  as  frigid  a  piece  of  blasphe- 
mous mockery  ai  can  be  found.  Obtaining  and  expressing  great 
thankfulness  for  the  privilege,  he  goes  off  from  the  presence  of  the 
Almighty  and  his  angels  with  the  remark,  "  I  like  to  see  the  ancient 
one"  (or  old  gentleman)  "  occasionally.  It 's  quite  civil  in  so  great  a 
Lord  to  talk  with  the  devil  himself"  It  is  this  ultimate,  impudent 
depravity,  "  logical  life  with  moral  death,"  which  makes  him  so  fasci- 
nating to  the  skeptics  of  Germany.  Yet,  if  need  be,  he  can  hide  this 
repulsiveness.  You  may  keep  him  company  for  weeks  and  never 
have  a  hint  of  hell  or  a  sniff  of  brimstone.  He  may  be  with  you 
without  your  knowledge,  seeing  without  being  seen,  hearing  without 
being  heard,  coming  in  without  leave,  and  leaving  without  noise ;  can 
be  shut  neither  in  nor  out ;  is  seen  when  he  is  not  known,  and  is 
known  when  he  is  not  seen :  so  that  he  is  the  more  potent  in  his  allure- 
ments and  dangerous  in  his  designs,  because  he  is  so  complete  in  his 
duplicity.  As  Spenser  was  called  the  poet's  poet,  so  may  Mephisto- 
pheles  be  called  the  devil's  devil.  He  assumes  the  form  of  a  poodle 
or  a  gentleman  at  will ;  goes  off  in  thin  air,  or  takes  substantial  form  ; 
sings  songs  with  the  jovial;  talks  like  an  institution  with  a  "we;" 
argues  philosophy  with  the  pedantic,  and  plays  the  Satanic  all  the 
time. 

One  of  his  many  sides  is  the  comical.  He  has  his  fun,  but  it  is  a 
diabolical  fun.  In  the  wine-cellar,  at  Leipzig,  is  a  drinking  party, 
loud  in  carousal  and  deep  in  their  cups.  The  devil  would  show  Faust 
with  what  little  wit  and  much  content  life  may  fly  away ;  and  in  the 
guise  of  travellers  they  join  the  party.  Ho  snigs  song,  furnishes 
liquor  by  boring  a  hole  in  the  edge  of  the  table,  draws  from  it  wine, 
some  of  which,  spilt  by  an  awkward  reveller,  turns  to  flame.  Then, 
indeed,  is  dismay ;  then  ensues  a  fight,  in  which,  of  course,  the  devil 
gets  the  best;  after  which  ho  transports,  by  his  necromancy,  the 
carousing  company  into  a  paradise  of  beauty,  where,  amid  flowers 
and  fruit  they  revel,  plucking  luscious  grapes  with  avidity,  which,  as 
the  illusion  is  dispelled,  they  find,  for  grapes,  each  other's  noses. 

It  is  said  that  the  devil  has  a  hand  in  all  the  fun  and  frolic  of  life. 
Tl)cre  is  some  rea-^on  for  the  assi-rtion.     Tiie  eonfe'^sion  mav  not  be 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  235 

3reditable ;  but  an  analysis  of  the  most  comical  characters  of  Shake- 
speare or  Dickens  will  reveal  a  large  alloy  of  deviltry.  Mischief  is 
first  cousin  to  Momus.  "  Old  Knick"  always  has  fun  at  his  "  table." 
There  is  an  infirmity  in  our  nature  which  likes  this  flavor  of  sin  in  the 
wine  of  life ;  it  may  be  because  it  prefers  the  joking  to  the  earnest 
devil.  Many  never  think  of  him  without  a  chuckle,  or  talk  of  him 
without  a  joke.  The  majority  will  enjoy  the  Devil's  Drive  of  Byron 
better  than  his  Lucifer,  and  the  Devil's  Thoughts  with  Coleridge  much 
better  than  Satan's  speeches  to  his  fallen  comrades.  Coleridge  has 
happily  seen  the  laughing  side,  and  catches  this  view  of  him  when  he 

sings, 

"  Froji  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 
.    A-walking  the  devil  is  gone, 
To  visit  his  snug  little  farm,  the  earth, 
And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on. 

"  Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale. 
And  he  went  over  the  plain. 
And  backward  and  forward  he  switched  his  long  tail, 
As  a  gentleman  switches  his  cane, 

"  He  saw  a  lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dung-hill  hard  by  his  own  stable ; 
And  the  devil  smiled,  for  it  put  him  in  mind 
Of  Cain  and  lus  brother  Abel. 

"  He  saw  an  apothecary  on  a  white  horse 
Kide  by  on  his  vocations, 
And  the  devil  thought  of  his  old  friend, 
Death  in  the  Revelations. 

*'  He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 
A  cottage  of  gentility, 
And  the  devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 
Is  pride  which  apes  humility. 

"  He  peeped  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop. 
Quoth  he,  'We  are  both  of  one  college; 
For  I  sate  myself,  like  a  cormorant,  once 
Hard  by  the  tree  of  knowledge.'  " 


236  THE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEXIR. 

Byron  took  up  this  strain,  and  tried  to  handle  it  similarly,  but  he  had 
less  hunior  than  spleen.  His  devil  drove  with  him  into  London, 
visited  the  booksellers,  the  Lords  and  Commons,  and  found  so  much 
geniality,  that  he  went  back  delighted  to  his  meal  of  homicides  done 
in  ragout,  and  a  rebel  or  two  in  an  Irish  stew,  and  sausages  made  of 
a  self-slain  Jew. 

But  no  author  has  combined,  in  this  jolly  devil,  such  a  variety  of 
diabolic  attributes  as  Goethe.  It  was  necessary  that  life  be  exhibited 
in  all  its  phases,  and  to  omit  laughter  would  have  been  a  sad  depriva- 
tion. Having  bound  Faust  in  a  contract  signed  with  his  own  blood,  he 
runs  with  him  the  round  of  transient  joy,  takes  him  through  the  rack- 
ing  experiences  of  love,  hampers  his  mind  with  denial,  harrows  it  with 
doubt,  proves  to  him  the  emptiness  of  pleasure,  and  drives  him  to 
despair,  and  would  drive  us  also,  but  for  the  heavenly  vision  of  Mar- 
garet, whose  life,  like  the  prayers  of  Dante's  Beatrice,  buoy  the  soul 
upward  to  the  Source  of  Love  and  Light !  whose  life  leaps  from  the 
dark  drama  like  a  silver  cascade  from  a  gloomy  Alpine  gorge,  white 
in  purity,  spanned  by  the  iris  of  Hope,  and  singing  like  a  seraph  of 
Joy. 

The  Satan  of  Milton  is  so  familiar  that  it  needs  no  analysis  in 
order  to  compare  him  with  this  sneering  skeptic  of  Goethe.  The 
former  is  epical,  the  latter  dramatic.  The  former  is  a  higher  reach 
of  genius.  It  is  transcendental.  The  Satan  of  Milton,  like  the  witches 
of  Macbeth  or  the  Tempest,  is  supernatural.  The  scenery  and  con- 
duct belongs  not  to  our  sphere,  the  earth.  Mephistopheles  is  entirely 
at  home  among  men.  The  Satan  of  Milton  is  vast,  vague,  uncertain, 
"  floating  many  a  rood ;"  a  conception,  not  a  form  of  matter ;  a  sha- 
dowy phantom  towering  sublime  like  Tenerifie,  with  features  scarred 
with  the  thunder  of  God's  vengeance.  Mephistopheles  is  a  worldling, 
a  changeling,  a  schemer,  with  no  very  determinate  means,  but  takes 
any  to  a  bad  end. 

"  So  monarcliB,  wlicn  their  politics  grow  Btale, 
Change  measures,  and  by  novelty  prevaiL" 

The  Satan  of  Milton  in  intellectual  massiveness  is  only  equalled  by 
his  moral  obliquity.     He  eml)odios  a  will  more  than  Promethwin 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  23" 

Mephistopheles   seems  to  say,  "  I  -would,"  or  '•  I  may ;"  Satan,  "  I 

WILL  !" 

Napoleon  coped  with  destiny,  and  read  in  the  stars  his  horoscope ; 
and  he  moved  on  to  its  fulfillment  as  the  cannon-ball  which  he  sped, 
regardless  of  the  ruin  it  made,  Talleyrand  played  with  men  and 
associated  with  women,  and,  like  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  by  a  mobility  in 
duplicity,  retained  his  place  under  every  form  of  government.  Bona- 
parte was  more  like  Satan ;  Talleyrand,  Mephistopheles.  Mephisto- 
pheles copes  with  man,  and  laughs  over  his  success  in  human  weak- 
ness ;  Satan  copes  with  God,  and  energizes,  by  his  nervous  oratory, 
the  myriads  of  hell  to  rise  against  the  Omnipresent  in  arms.  The 
one  shirks  and  dodges  through  life ;  the  other  rises  above  life,  defies 
Death  and  conquers  Despair. 

In  Mephistopheles  we  have  a  dove  in  gentleness,  if  need  be ;  a  ser- 
pent in  cunning  at  all  times ;  but  he  never  rise,  'o  that  lofty  daring 
in  which  the  heroic  element  consists.  "  But  Satan' i^  might  intellectual 
is  victorious  over  all  extremities  of  pain ;  amid  agonies  unutterable, 
he  delineates,  resolves,  and  even  exults.  Against  the  sword  of  Mich- 
ael, the  thunder  of  Jehovah,  the  flaming  lake,  and  the  marl  burning 
with  solid  fire ;  against  the  prospect  of  an  eternity  of  unintermittent 
misery,  his  spirit  bears  up  unbroken,  resting  on  its  own  innate  ener- 
gies, requiring  no  support  from  any  thing  external,  nor  even  from 
hope  itself!" 

Satan  and  Mephistopheles  are  neither  old  wives'  devils,  such  as 
those  of  Tasso  and  Klopstock ;  they  are  not  vast,  well-defined  ma- 
chines, munching  Iscariots^  like  Dante's  Satan;  not  allegorico-mys- 
tico-sophistico-metaphysical  devils,  like  Bailey's  Lucifer,  hungering 
and  thirsting  after  unrighteousness,  and  striving  to  reconcile  good 
with  evil,  and  to  educe  purity  out  of  pollution. 

There  is  a  fascination  both  in  Satan  and  in  Mephistopheles,  which 
belongs  not  to  the  heroes  of  Byron  and  Bailey.  Byron  reflects  in  his 
Lucifer  his  own  morbid  doubtings,  and  reviles  God  with  a  bitterness 
of  spirit  which  deserves  the  reprobation  of  the  good.  Bailey,  in  his 
Festus,  loses  all  regard  for  the  properties  of  the  diabolic.  His  devil 
falls  in  love  in  one  place ;  in  another,  scolds  the  damned  like  a  fish- 
woman,  reproves  his  under-fiends  for  laziness,  telling  them  that  the^ 


239  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

<lo  not  cam  enough  to  pay  for  the  caloric  that  burns  them  ;  mingles 
love  and  lust ;  loses  sight  of  the  distinctions  between  the  moral  and 
the  intellectual,  and  ends  his  medley  with  the  triumph  of  sensibility 
over  reason  and  the  endevilment  of  God  Almightt. 

Suppose  proclamation  were  made  fur  a  groat  congress  in  Pande- 
monium. The  infernal  palace  of  Dis  is  lighted  with  the  lurid  flames ; 
the  hissing  of  the  serpents,  the  wail  of  the  lost,  and  the  surging  of  the 
liquid  lake  ceases  for  the  occasion.  Suddenly  the  smoke  of  the  pit 
clears  away,  the  seats  of  the  Satanic  senators  are  revealed,  and  the  ' 
roll  is  called.  Sheva,  the  black  destroyer  of  Ind,  answers  for  him- 
self and  queen ;  Prometheus,  the  Titanic  heaven-hater,  and  Demiur- 
gus,  the  gnostic  world-king  of  evil,  are  there !  The  arch-fiend  of  the 
Mysteries  exalts  his  horn,  and  stamps  with  his  iron  hoof!  The  three- 
faced  Emperor  of  Dante,  with  his  mouthful  of  sinners,  sends  a  tem- 
pest from  his  mighty  wings  to  announce  his  presence !  The  leering 
Mcphistopheles  swaggers  to  his  seat  with  a  devil-may-care  air !  And 
Lucifer,  Moloch,  and  Belial,  and  Beelzebub,  and  all  the  devils  of 
romance,  tradition,  and  history,  fill  the  hall.  But  the  great  leader 
appears  not  yet !  Suspense  reigns  in  the  abyss !  Far  off  his  coming 
shines !  And  Satan,  the  self-elected  king  of  all,  strides  proudly  to  the 
highest  seat !     Then  go  up  the  shouts  which  shake  hell's  concave ! 

No  caucus  for  speaker  is  needed  now.  No  wrangle  for  the  pre- 
miership ;  for  no  voice  is  heard  till  the  ruined  archangel  has  first  spo- 
ken and  commanded.  lie  overtops  them  all,  even  as  Jove  the  gods 
of  Olympus,  "  in  mien  and  gesture  proudly  eminent !" 

Other  languages  have  had  worse  specimens  of  depravity  in  their 
literature  than  ours.  France,  in  her  licentiousness,  Germany,  in  her 
skepticism,  Italy,  in  her  abandonment,  have  more  of  the  elements  of 
positive  evil ;  ^iut  it  was  reserved  for  the  English  muse  to  produce 
this  unrivalled  genius  of  evil;  and  while  we  deplore  that  industry 
intellect,  and  will  are  associated  with  so  much  badness,  yet,  thanks 
to  John  Milton,  the  freeman  of  English  intellect,  at  once  heroic  and 
holy,  he  has  created  an  impassable  gulf  between  evil  and  good,  and 
testing  human  action  by  thi-se  most  radical  distinctions,  sings  a  "  Para 
disc  Ili'gained"  from  the  thraldom  of  Satan  ! 

Thus  much  fur  our  analysis  of  the  Satanic  element  of  literaturQ 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  239 

There  is  much  only  hinted,  more  unsaid.  My  limits  allow  no  excur- 
sions into  the  fields  of  theology.  Nor  have  I  introspected  the  human 
heart,  to  find  its  legions  of  devils,  who  harbor  along  its  sinuous  ave- 
nues," and  revel  in  its  chambers  of  imagery.  "We  may  feel  bold  at 
the  idea  that  the  material  devil  has  disappeared ;  may  draw  a  reliev- 
ing sigh  that  all  these  creations  we  have  considered  are  but  the  fig- 
ments of  the  imagination ;  but  this  one  fact  reniams  as  palpable  as 
granite,  that  there  is  a  devil,  all  the  more  real  because  viewless,  all 
the  more  subtle  because  concealed,  all  the  more  dangerous  because  he 
hides  in  our  hearts,  befools  our  senses,  and  makes  his  hell  in  our  own 
unhappiness.  His  is  a  spiritual  existence,  and  therefore  a  more  ter- 
rible reality ! 

Is,  then,  the  "  Paradise  Regained  "  but  a  song  1  And  shall  the 
fact  ever  be  a  Paradise  Lost  —  lost  —  lost  for  ever  !  Shall  those  mys- 
terious relations  of  the  soul  to  evil,  emblemed  in  these  creations  of 
literature,  continue  ?  Shall  the  soul  for  ever  "  lacerate  itself  with 
sin  and  misery,  like  a  captive  bird  against  the  iron  limits  which 
necessity  has  drawn  around  it  ?"  We  answer  fearfully.  Yes ;  yet 
hopefully,  iVb  ! 

Fearfully,  Yes;  for  while  the  human  intellect  is  prostituted 
through  print,  there  is  the  most  enduring  of  wrongs,  the  most  irre- 
vocable of  evils.  It  is  the  angel  of  light,  fallen,  and  eclipsed  of 
his  glory,  and  dragging  other  angels  with  him.  Wit,  fancy,  talent, 
humor,  judgment,  and  genius  join  in  some  gifted  mind  with  the  cun- 
ning craft  of  deviltry,  and  an  influence  like  that  of  a  leprous  spot 
enters  and  defiles  the  soul  for  ever. 

Hopefully,  No  ;  for  as  the  age  grows  brighter  and  warmer,  a 
kindlier  philosophy  bedews  the  lip  of  song,  and  a  holier  spirit  en- 
kindles the  fire  of  enthusiasm.  The  works  of  those  who  refuse  conse- 
cration at  the  font  of  purity,  who  would  wanton  with  lictiutiousness 
and  error,  will  be  thrown  aside  among  the  rubbish  of  dullness  and 
duncery.  The  splendors  of  genius  will  not  save  them  from  the 
eclipses  of  neglect.  This  idolatry  of  the  Satanic  will  pass  away,  and 
the  prince  of  the  power  of  the  air  will  in  vain  seek  for  his  old  alli- 
ance with  the  genius  of  print,  so  long  as  virtue  is  regarded  as  better 


240  THE    ATLANTIC   SOUVENIK. 

than  ability,  and  godliness  than  gain.  Shall  the  evil  one  for  ever 
haunt  humanity  1     Hopefully,  no !  no !  no  ! 

I  have  an  Italian  painting  which  is  emblematic  of  this  contest  be- 
tween evil  and  good  on  the  earth.  It  is  a  night  scene  on  the  shores 
of  Sicily.  The  artist  stands  amidst  the  broken  columns  and  dis- 
jointed arches  of  a  villa,  beautiful  in  its  ruin,  even  as  man  in  his  fall. 
He  overlooks  the  blue  sea.  There  is  an  unwonted  blending  of  light 
and  shadow  on  earth,  wave  and  sky.  Light  and  shadow  ?  Rather 
li[/hls  and  shadow ;  for  two  lights  reveal  a  scene  of  loveliness  and 
terror.  Yon  red  and  lurid  light  bursts  from  the  top  of  ^tna  in 
eruption.  Yon  white  and  tranquil  light  gleams  from  the  moon, 
through  rolling  clouds  of  smoke — gleams  in  broken  silver  on  the 
wave,  on  the  ruin,  against  the  lining  of  the  cloud,  and  mingling  with 
the  lurid  blaze,  bepaints  the  mountain  sides,  the  half  hid  villixges  by 
the  shore,  and  interpenetrates  the  moving  masses  of  smoke,  which 
the  sea-breeze  bears  away  from  the  peak  to  the  inland.  The  chaste 
light  of  heaven  thus  blends  with  the  impure  fires  of  earth,  as  the 
good  struggles  with  the  evil. 

Lo  !  ships  skim  the  sea,  full-rigged  and  swift ;  for  interchange 
goes  on  amidst  the  elemental  strife.  In  the  light  which  fills  the  rents 
of  the  ruin,  in  the  foreground,  sits  a  rustic  maiden  in  picturesque 
^vhite  boddice  and  scarlet  kirtle,  blushing  at  the  tale  of  love  whis- 
pered by  the  shepherd  at  her  side  ;  for  love  survives,  though  polluted 
Pompeiis  perish  !  The  fire-mount  rises  from  the  sea,  whose  waves, 
moonlit  and  musical,  spring  to  kiss  its  throbbing  feet  and  cool  its 
nxging  fire ;  for  joy  is  not  wholly  hushed  by  the  earthquake  which 
•'smacks  its  rumbling  lips,"  eager  to  devour.  The  lights  reveal, 
xmidst  the  villages  and  through  the  smoke,  many  a  spire  of  God's 
'.hurch,  pointing  with  silent  emphasis  upward. 

But  a  pall  overhangs  the  picture;  yet  through  it  the  allegory 
ihines.  Tlie  shadow  of  evil  beclouds  human  destiny,  yet  through  it 
we  see  commerce  knitting  man  to  man  by  the  amenities  of  inter- 
course ;  love  blending  heart  to  heart  by  her  solaces  of  sweetness ; 
joy  making  music  on  the  sands  of  time ;  and  religion  pointing  out 
the  path  of  aspiration^  to  a  better  home,  where  throes  of  earth  and 


THE    SATANIC    IN    LITERATURE.  241 

the  temptations  of  Satan  come  nevermore !     Through  it  shines  the 
queen  of  heaven,  serene  as  faith,  and  beautiful  as  hope. 

Etna's  fires  grow  dim  before  the  rising  day,  but  that  queen  of 
heaven,  untainted  by  its  impurity,  sails  away  to  smile  on  other  lands. 
The  morning  shows  but  the  ashes  of  the  wasted  energies  of  the 
night  of  boding.  Wasted  ?  Oh  !  no ;  for  even,  its  ashes  may  fruc- 
tify the  earth ;  and  it  is  well  said,  that  in  the  ploughing  of  the  earth- 
quake, even  as  in  the  ploughing  of  grief,  wrought  by  temptations,  is 
the  agriculture  of  God.  Without  it  no  rich  immortal  vintage  can  be 
gathered.  And  trials  and  temptations  of  the  evil  spirit,  and  the 
literature  which  enshrines  it,  may  last,  like  vEtna's  fire,  for  a  night ; 
but  hopefully  the  heart  yearns  for  the  joy  which  cometh  in  the 
morning ! 


16 


'immn  IJlESIr  ai  €\)txxi  Mlti. 


BT      6E0KOE      P.      M0RBI8. 


AiB.     "J?oy'«  TFt/fe.' 


Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Valley, 

At  whose  call  the  muses  rally ; 

Of  aU  the  nine  none  so  divine 

As  Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Valley. 

She  'minds  me  of  her  native  scenes, 

"Where  she  was  born  among  the  cherries ; 
Of  peaches,  plums,  and  nectarines. 

Pears,  apricots,  and  ripe  strawberries ! 

Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Yalley. 

* 

IL 

Jeannie  Marsh  ot  Cherry  Valley, 
In  whose  name  the  muses  rally ; 
Of  all  the  nine  none  so  divine 
As  Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Valley 
A  sylvan  nymph  with  queenly  grace. 

An  angel  she  in  every  feature ; 
The  sweet  expression  of  the  place, 

A  dimple  in  the  smile  of  nature  1 

Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Valley. 


^t  Sttn-gial  at  |sdk. 


BT    BICHABD    B.    KIMBALU 

Our  young  traveller  —  we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  his 
name,  or  who  he  was,  possibly  the  author  of  "Views  Afoot"  —  had 
safely  crossed  the  last  torrent,  which,  the  bridge  having  been  swept 
away  a  few  days  previous,  was  even  now  not  altogether  free  from 
danger.  He  had  passed  the  boundary  of  the  Valais,  and,  in  fact, 
stood  upon  the  soil  of  Italy.  To  be  sure,  he  did  not  at  once  behold 
the  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  nor  breathe  the  mild  atmosphere,  nor  wit- 
ness the  exuberance  of  foliage  and  of  flower,  which  belong  under  an 
Italian  sun.  Nevertheless,  the  presence  of  the  luxuriant  chestnut,  the 
softer  green  of  the  grass,  and  the  frequent  appearance  of  the  vine 
itself,  proved  to  our  pedestrian,  as  he  entered  the  little  village  of  Isella, 
that  he  was  fast  bidding  adieu  to  the  desolate  majesty  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  would  soon  enjoy  a  prospect  of  the  loveliness  of  the  plain. 

There  was  nothing  inviting  about  the  place  which  the  youth  had 
reached,  save  its  romantic  situation.  At  the  j^resent  time  it  was  filled 
with  travellers  in  great  variety,  who  had  been  detained  by  the  over- 
flowing of  the  "gallery"  beyond,  which  rendered  an  advance  impos- 
sible. Tlie  sole  house  of  entertainment  was  a  miserable  and  dirty 
inn,  now  literally  without  provisions,  if  we  may  except  a  quantity  of 
onions  and  some  fat  bacon.  It  could,  of  course,  afford  no  accommo- 
dation for  the  hourly  increasing  additions  to  the  company.  Tlie  only 
building  of  decent  appearance  was  the  custom-house ;  for  Isella,  being 
the  frontier  town  and  on  the  Simplon  route,  the  number  of  travellers 
was  large  at  certain  seasons,  and  at  this  spot  every  species  of  luggage 
underwent  a  close  examination.     Finding  he  could  obtain  nothing 


246  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

whatever  at  the  tavern,  the  youth,  without  delaying  to  exchange  cour- 
tesies with  any  of  his  fellow  voyageurs  whom  he  encountered  there, 
turned  suddenly  away,  and  with  the  promptness  and  alacrity  of  an  old 
soldier,  entered  one  of  the  meanly-built  cottages  which  compose  the 
town,  and  soon  procured  half  a  loaf  of  black  bread,  some  very  poor 
cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  so  exceeding  sour  that,  thirsty  as  he 
was,  it  was  not  till  he  had  been  nearly  choked  by  the  coarse  crumbs 
he  could  bring  himself  to  swallow  it.  He  left  the  hut,  making  a 
series  of  wry  faces,  but,  after  all,  feeling  much  refreshed  and  quite 
ready  for  adventure.  The  "  gallery  "  was  still  filled  with  water ;  yet 
to  a  pedestrian,  this  might  not  prove  an  insurmountable  obstacle ;  so 
he  resolved,  after  reclaiming  his  knapsack  at  the  custom-house,  and 
with  another  glance  at  the  surrounding  scenery,  to  hasten  on  his  way. 
"Who  will  blame  our  hero  1  What  to  him  —  young,  eager,  and  enthu- 
siastic—  was  the  crowd  which  pressed  around  the  inn?  What  to 
him  was  the  look  of  interest  displayed  by  many  a  fair  girl,  as  he 
passed,  this  way  and  that,  unconscious  1  He  was  entering  Italy  for 
the  first  time.  But  he  did  not  hasten  on  his  way ;  he  staid  more 
than  one  good  hour  at  this  unpromising,  wretched  place.  Notwith- 
standing the  sun  began  to  decline,  and  kept  sinking  and  sinking 
toward  the  west,  still  he  remained  quietly  on  the  same  spot  where  he 
stopped  —  as  he  thought  but  for  a  moment — just  after  leaving  the 
officers  of  the  customs,  with  his  knapsack  in  his  hand. 

It  was  before  a  sun-dial :  a  dial  not  remarkable  in  its  appearance, 
an  ordinary  dial,  but  having  some  letters  engraved  on  it,  which 
attracted  his  attention,  and  lie  paused  to  read  them.  Tlie  lines  made 
such  an  impression  on  him  that  he  put  down  his  knapsack,  drew  out 
his  memorandum-book,  and  seated  himself  a  few  steps  aside  to  copy 
the  inscription.     It  was  as  follows : 

"Tons' A  tomando  il  sol,  I'ombra  smarritta; 
Ma  non  piu  retoraa  I'cti  fuggita.'' 

Tlio  vanished  shadow  returns  when  returns  tho  sun 
But  fugitive  Lifo  returns  never  again. 


THE    SUN-DIAL    OF   ISELLA.  24  T 

While  the  youth  sat  for  a  moment,  engrossed  with  reflections 
which  the  words  suggested,  two  persons  approached  the  dial,  and 
stopped  before  it.  They  were  husband  and  wife,  refined  in  appear- 
ance, and  considerably  past  the  prime  of  life.  They  stood  quite  still 
for  two  or  three  minutes,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  inscription.  The 
woman  was  the  first  to  speak.  Turning  her  face  full  on  her  husband, 
though  still  retaining  his  arm,  she  exclaimed :  "  Now  I  know  why  you 
left  the  young  people  at  Martigny  to  follow  us  in  the  morning ;  I 
have  not  forgotten  this  spot ;  I  have  not  forgotten  that  thirty  years 
ago  this  day"  —  and  tears  started  to  her  eyes  as  she  spoke  — "you  and 
I  were  here,  in  this  very  place,  reading  these  same  lines :  impulsive, 
vivacious,  and  very  happy ;  we  were  just  married ;  these  lines  struck 
me  as  full  of  sentiment,  but  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  they  con- 
veyed a  moral  lesson,  for  a  moral  lesson  just  then  seemed  quite  out 
of  place.  So  I  thought,  at  least,  when,  with  serious,  almost  solemn, 
look,  you  said  to  me,  '  No,  it  returns  no  more  again !  Let  us  live  so 
that  we  shall  never  have  one  regret  that  it  does  not  return ;  let  us 
live  so  that,  growing  wiser  and  happier  each  day,  to  go  back  to  yes- 
terday would  only  be  a  lessening  of  our  joys.'  But  I  did  not  forget 
what  you  said,  Walter,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  You  did  not,  Maude,"  replied  her  husband  gently ;  "  and  here 
we  stand,  before  this  mute  monitor,  to  thank  God  that  we  did  not 
pass  it  unheeded.  Thirty  years  seem  compressed  into  a  day,"  he  con- 
tinued  in  a  less  serious  tone ;  "  indeed  I  do  not  feel  one  hour  older." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  responded  the  wife ;  "  and  as  for  you,  your  heart 
positively  seems  younger  than  on  the  morning  you  spoke  so  seriously." 
Tliere  was  an  interchange  of  affectionate  looks,  when  she  said  to  him, 
"And  yet,  Walter,  how  insensibly  events  steal  upon  us !  What  agency 
is  at  work,  unseen,  unfelt,  and  unperceived,  till  we  are  taken  by  sur- 
prise by  what  is  accomplished  1     Do  you  not  think" 


"  Holloa,  there !  is  there  any  thing  worth  seeing  up  yonder  ?" 
echoed  from  a  coarse  voice  below,  so  startlingly  that  our  youth  lost 
the  remainder  of  the  sentence.     At  the  same  moment,  from  another 


248  THE    ATLANTIC   80UTEKIR. 

direction,  appeared  a  party  of  young  fellows,  evidently  students ;  and 
the  lovers  walked  quietly  away. 

The  young  men  came  up  in  groat  glee.  One  read  the  inscription 
aloud,  two  or  three  gesticulating  vigorously  to  his  emphasis.  Vocife- 
rous plaudits  followed  the  performance.    "  Bravo !"  cried  one,  "  thoso 

lines  are  worthy  of  the  old  'Many-Sided'  himself;  not  unlike" 

"  Our  subject,  gentlemen,  is  Time,"  broke  in  another  with  an  oratori- 
cal tone ;  "  a  very  important  one,  when  you  consider  how  long  we 
may  be  kept  here,  subjected  to  such  entertainment  as  is  served  up  for 
us  at  the  Inferno  over  the  way.  Nevertheless  it  is  my  duty  to  cau 
tion  you.  Beware  of  impatience.  Do  well  and  wait.  Let  it  be 
your  consolation  that  time  flies  swiftly ;  for  what  says  Horatius  Flac- 
cus? 

"  ' Efieu,  fugaces,  Poslhume,  Fosthume,  labuntur  annil^ 

'  To-morrow  will  be  one  day  after  to-day, 

and 
One  more  day  carries  us  a  day  farther  on.' 

That  shall  be  the  mscription  on  my  sun-dial,  when  I  erect  one.  But 
I  am  growing  tedious ;  I  perceive  it  myself;  I  beg  pardon  ibr  inter- 
rupting some  body,  who  was  about  to  say  something.  Pray,  proceed." 
"  Good  people,"  harangued  another  of  the  group,  mounting  a  largo 
stone  for  a  rostrum,  "  permit  me  to  arouse  you  to  a  sense  of  your 
unhappy  condition.  You  arc  noglectcrs  of  the  present ;  while  you 
spend  your  precious  moments  here,  Alfieri  Fioralfi  is  cooking  his 
last  onion.  Carpe  diem.  You  doubt,  you  gainsay,  you  deny  abso- 
lutely, you  don't  budge,  one  of  you,  after  that  onion.  You  are 
'chinking  of  Godot's  soups  and  Stein's  fricandeaus.  "NVliat  a  mistake ! 
what  a  fatal  error !  Listen  to  me.  Look  not  behind ;  the  past  is 
monumental  salt ;  '  a  living  dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion  ;'  so  the  pre- 
sent  living  and  breathing  onion  is  worth  more  than  a  kitchen-full  of 
have-beens,  whether  roasted,  stewed,  or  fried!  All  which  Master 
Schiller  (catching  the  thought  from  me)  indifll-rently  well  parajdirases 
as  follows : 

"  'PiUENDS,  fairer  times  linve  been, 

TVlio  can  deny,  llian  wo  ouraelves  have  seen, 


THE    SUN-DIAL    OF   ISELLA.  249 

And  an  old  race  of  more  majestic  worth  ? 
Were  History  silent  on  the  Past,  in  sooth, 
A  thousand  stones  would  witness  of  the  truth, 
"Which  men  disbury  from  the  womb  of  earth 
But  yet  that  race,  if  more  endowed  than  ours, 
Is  past !     No  joy  to  death  can  glory  give ; 
But  we,  we  are,  to  us  the  breathing  hours ; 
They  have  the  best  who  live  I'  " 

Immense  applause  succeeded  the  recitative,  and  with  a  general 
shout  of 

"  Huzza  for' the  omnipotent  Now  I" 

the  party  went  frolicking  on  their  way. 


These  had  scax'cely  left  before  another  company  appeared,  com- 
posed of  tourists,  who  had  evidently  made  each  other's  acquaintance 
en  route,  and  their  plans  coinciding,  were  going  on  together.  There 
was  a  handsome  girl  among  them,  with  a  stylish  figure,  black 
hair,  and  dark  eyes,  who  was  particularly  demonstrative  in  praise 
of  the  inscription. 

"  Italian !"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  we  are  really,  then,  in  Italy  —  in 
•Italy  !" 

"  You  are,  Mademoiselle,"  said  a  young  man,  with  as  much  ad- 
miration in  his  look  as  he  dared  to  manifest ;  "  this  is  the  frontier." 

"  Indeed !  oh  !  how  happy  I  am !  in  Italy  at  last !  My  dreams 
so  soon  to  be  realized !  I  can  scarcely  contain  myself  with  delight ! 
And  these  lines  :  I  must  have  a  new  title  in  my  common-place  book  ; 
here  it  is  ;  your  pencil  a  moment :  Sun-DiaV  —  and  the  inscription 
was  copied.  "  How  admirable  !  how  appropriate !  '  Time,  the  run- 
away.' Ah !  yes !  he  is  a  runaway ;  and  how  he  keeps  us  chasing 
after  him !" 

While  the  fair  one,  in  the  exuberance  of  life  and  health,  was 
giving  play  to  her  elastic  spirits,  a  young  girl,  very  pale,  with  hollow 
cheeks,  attenuated    f)rm,   and  weak   step,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 


250  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

ner  father,  came  up  and  stood  behind  the  group  —  a  victim  of  con- 
sumption doubtless,  on  her  way  to  a  more  genial  climate,  and  —  a 
grave.  The  eye  of  the  invalid  rested  on  the  dial.  Word  by  word 
she  seemed  to  take  in  what  was  written.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
with  a  gentle  sigh,  and  a  look  mournful  yet  placid,  she  turned  aside, 
and  parent  and  child  proceeded. 

Moanwliilc  the  other  young  lady  was  running  on  as  vivaciously  as 
ever. 

""Well,"  she  continued,  "now  that  I  have  one  inscription,  I  wish 
I  could  find  another." 

"Allow  me  to  furnish  one,"  said  the  young  man  before  named; 
"  I  took  it  from  the  dial  at  Ununa : 

"  '  VuLNERANT  omnes,  ultima  necat'; 
All  wound,  the  last  slays." 

He  pronounced  these  words  in  a  tone  so  pointed  that  the  hand- 
some girl,  although  evidently  used  to  compliment,  blushed,  and  asked, 
hastily,  "Where  is  Ununa?     My  geography  at  this  instant  fails  me." 

"  It  is  on  the  Spanish  frontier,"  replied  the  other. 

"  You  have  been  in  Spain,  then  ?"  said  the  handsome  girl,  fixing 
her  eyes  on  her  admirer  with  a  glance  of  deejior  interest  than  she  had 
hitherto  manifested.   "  Oh !  how  I  want  to  go  to  Spain !   I  must  go  to 

Spain,  before  we  return  —  the  country  of" The  company  were' 

walking  on,  and  the  rest  of  the  conversation  was  lost. 


"  What  can  it  be  yon  party  were  gazing  at  ?"  said  one  of  two 
Tery  solemn  personages  who  now  drew  near,  in  charge  of  a  courier. 

"A  sun-dial.  Messieurs  —  a  very  famous  one  —  erected  by  Cliarles 
the  Great  when  he  conquered  the  Alps ;  to  show,  as  you  perceive, 
the  hour  of  the  day,  and  also  to  indicate  when  the  weather  is  cloudy." 

"Indeed!  is  it  possible?  You  will  please  render  the  lines  for 
us?" 

"  With  pleasure,  Messieurs ;  very  famous  lines  th«\v  are  —  written 


THE    SUN-DIAL    OF   ISELLA.  251 

by  the  poet  Alpheus.     It's  Italian  —  Italian,  Messieurs."    And  the 
courier  proceeded  to  translate  them  thus : 

"  "When  you  see  the  sun,  you  see  the  shadow ; 
But  Tune  goes  along,  and  no  body  is  the  tnser  I" 

"  Exceedingly  impresslTe,"  said  one  of  the  solemn  faces. 
"  Exceedingly,"  echoed  the  other. 


At  this  moment  the  president  of  the Bank  in street,  a 

little  in  advance  of  his  family,  to  show  his  leading  position,  reached 
the  spot. 

"  Strange,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  in  these  old  countries  they  should 
have  introduced  so  few  modern  improvements !"  Turning  to  his 
daughter,  he  demanded  "  The  English  of  those  words  ?"  It  was  given 
pretty  correctly,  for  the  young  lady  had  "attended"  to  the  modem 
languages. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  the  bank  president,  "  this  is  absolutely  untrue. 
Any  body  knows  that  the  sun  comes  round  every  day  ;  and  any  body 
ought  to  know,  too,  that  in  cloudy  weather  the  shadow  do  n't  come. 
Ridiculous!  Preposterous!  All  stuff!  This  machine  may  do  well 
enough  here,  but  I  hardly  think  it  would  answer  for  a  rainy  day 
at  the  bank.     Our  notary  would  not  know  when  to  protest." 

"  But,  father,"  said  the  daughter,  timidly,  "  how  do  we  ascertain 
when  we  have  the  true  time  except  by  the  sun  ?  and  how  else  can 
we  correct  our  time  1" 

"  Child !"  replied  the  financier,  in  an  authoritative  tone,  "  I  am 
astonished  at  this  display  of  your  ignorance  after  such  an  education 
as  you  have  received.     How  do   we   correct  our  timel     By  the 

chronometer,  to  be  sure  !"     And  the  president  of  the Bank  in 

— -  street  strode  on. 


The  next  comer  was  a  pragmatical  old  gentleman,  having  in  hiS' 
charge,  as  pupils,  two  young  scions,  who  appeared  particularly  to  dis- 


252  THE    ATLANTIC    SDLVENIIl. 

relish  the  restraint  which  their  senior  attempted  to  impose,  and  the 
mstruction  with  which  he  was  continually  endeavoring  to  cram  them. 
"  Ha  !  a  sun-dial,"  said  the  old  fellow  ;  '*  an  excellent  opportunity 
for  investigating  t!ie  subject  of  dials !    They  are  of  great  antiquity  — 
very  great  antiquity.     The  first  we  have  any  account  of  is  the  dial 
of  Ahaz,  of  which  we  read  in  the  Second  of  Kings,  and  on  which  the 
shadow  went  ten  degrees  backward,  as  a  sign  to  King  Ilezekiah ;  and 
in  this  connection  I  deem  it  proper  to  observe  that  the  miracle  waa 
probably  effected  by  means  of  refraction,  performed  on  the  atmo- 
sphere by  the  agency  of  clouds  or  vapors  rather  than  by  an  inter- 
ruption of  the  course  of  the  earth  or  any  of  the  heavenly  bodies. 
I  will  remark  about  the  dial,  first,  as  to  its  antiquity.     Ahaz  began 
his  reign  just  four  hundred  years  before  Alexander,  and  twelve  after 
the  foundation  of  Rome.    How  long  the  dial  was  in  use  before  the  time 
of  Ahaz,  we  know  not;  without  doubt  a  consideraltle  period.     Some 
writers  insist  that  Anaximenes,  the  Milesian,  four  hundred  years  be- 
fore Christ,  was  the  first  who  made  a  sun-dial.     Others  bestow  this 
honor  on  his  countryman,  Thales,  who   lived   two   hundred  years 
earlier.    I  will  not  now  speak  of  Aristarchus,  nor  of  Papyrius  Cursor, 
and  others  named  in  history  as  having  made  dials ;  for  the  moderns 
have  brought  dialling  to  much  greater  perfection.    Opportunity,  how- 
ever, is  wanting,  else  I  would  give  you  a  lecture  on  this  rigidly 
mathematical   science.     Nevertheless,  if   you   will    lend   me   your 
crayon,  I  will  teach  you  how  to  construct  the  common  dial,  referring 
you,  at  the  same  time,  for  more  special  scientific  information,  to  the 
works  of  Rivard,  De  Parcieux,  Dom.  Bcdos  dc  Cclles,  Joseph  Blaise 
Gamier,  Gravesande,  Emerson,  Martin,  and  Leadbeatcr.     Now  for  a 

gnomonic  figure.     Let  A,  B,  C  represent" 

"  Tom  !  I  say,  Tom  !  what  the  deuce  are  you  loitering  there  for  ? 
We  are  having  lots  of  fun  up  this  way." 

Whereat  the  two  youths,  in  the  most  abrupt  manner,  took  to 
their  heels,  leaving  pencil  and  paper  in  the  hand -of  the  astonished 
preceptor,  who,  slowly  shaking  his  head,  but  without  a  word  of  com- 
ment, walked  reluctantly  forward. 


THE    SUN-DIAL    OF    ISELLA.  253 

Almost  immediately  after,  the  author  of passed  the  spot. 

His  person  was  known  to  our  youth,  who  watched  the  movements 
of  the  man  of  celebrity  with  considerable  interest.  A  glance  was 
given  at  the  dial,  the  lines  were  I'apidly  transferred  to  his  note-book, 
while  he  muttered,  half  aloud,  "A  good  motto  for  the  heading  of  a 
chapter.  It  may  do  for  an  article.  Strange,  often  as  I  have  been 
here,  this  should  have  escaped  me."  It  seemed  to  our  young  traveller, 
as  the  author  walked  away,  as  if  his  heart  had  been  taken  out,  and  an 
artificial  one  put  in  its  place. 


A  SOLITARY  and  sad-looking  figure  paused  before  the  dial,  and 
raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  said  something  about  "a  day's  march 
nearer  home,"  and  pursued  his  course. 


The  young  pedestrian  fell  into  a  reverie.  "  It  is  even  so,"  he  said 
to  himself;  "  the  world  is  a  mirror  which  reflects  one's  own  thoughts, 
and  feelings,  and  hopes,  and  fears,  and  character,  and  disposition. 
Hence  the  great  truth :  '  Seek  and  ye  shall  find.'  No  matter  what 
one  seeks,  a  supply  always  follows  the  demand." 

The  youth  was  startled  from  his  day-dream  by  the  vigorous  and 
healthful  voice  of  a  man,  in  the  prime  of  life,  who,  with  a  companion, 
had  approached  the  dial  unobserved,  and  was  in  his  turn  reading  the 
inscription. 

"  Very  neat,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  the  Italians  have  a  most  delicate 
way  of  expressing  a  sentiment ;  but  after  all,  this  does  not  compare 
with  our  straightforward  and  forcible  English  proverb : 

"  '  Time  and  tide  wait  for  no  man  I' " 

So  it  seems,  thought  the  youth ;  for,  starting  hastily  to  his  feet, 
he  threw  his  knapsack  over  his  shoulder,  and  was  presently  hid  from 
sight  by  an  abrupt  bend  in  the  road  just  below  the  village. 


X. 


,..^ 


\\>»    .>v.    VSJ         -^ 


^^oAP'P^' 


f  Irt  (3^ntprox's  %\xV$-'^t$l 


BT  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Once  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 
With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 

I  forget  in  what  campaign, 

Long  besieged  in  mud  and  rain 
Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 

Striding  with  a  measured  tramp, 

These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp. 

Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed  the  weather. 

Thus,  as  to  and  fro  they  went. 
Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 

Giving  their  impatience  vent. 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent, 
In  her  nest  they  spied  a  swallow. 

Tes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest. 

Built  of  clay  and  ban-  of  horses' 
Mane  or  tail,  or  dragon's  crest. 
Found  on  hedge-rows,  east  or  west, 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said. 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 
"  Sure  this  swallow  over-head 
Thinks  our  Emperor's  tent  a  shed, 
And  our  Emperor  but  a  Macho ! '  * 

•  Maoiio,  tho  Spanish  for  mule. 


256  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  vt-ith  these  words  of  malice, 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 
Forth  the  great  campaigner  came, 
Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

"  Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest," 

Said  he,  solemnly,  "  nor  hurt  her  I  " 
Adding  then,  by  way  of  jest, 

"  GoLONDHiNA  is  my  gnest ; 

'T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter !  "  * 

Swift  as  bow-string  speeds  a  shaft. 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor 
And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quafifed 
Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  humor. 

So,  unharmed  and  unafraid, 

There  the  swallow  sat  and  brooded. 
Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made, 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 
Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding ; 

Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent, 

For  he  ordered  ere  ho  went, 
Very  curtly,  "  Leave  it  standing !  " 

And  it  stood  there  all  alone. 

Loosely  flapping,  torn  and  tattered. 
Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown. 
Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone. 
That  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 

*  GoLONDXiif  0,  In  Spanish,  means  a  swallow  and  a  descrtt 


%xMm  0f  t\)t  ^att|t^ 


BY     T.     B.     THOKPB. 


Of  all  our  Indian  tribes,  none  were  more  interesting  or  more 
rudely  destroyed  than  the  Natchez.  What  is  remembered  of  them 
is  calculated  to  make  a  deep  impression  upon  the  imagination,  and  to 
t  cause  regret  that  some  historian  had  not  preserved  a  truthful  history 
of  this  singular  people.  In  the  early  traditions  of  the  Mexicans,  pre- 
served to  us  in  their  hieroglyphical  paintings,  there  is  presented  the 
wonderful  spectacle  of  families  and  nations,  from  innate  impulses, 
moving  from  "the  North,"  and,  ever  restless,  wandering  over  an 
inioccupied  continent  in  search  of  homes.  It  is  evident  that  the  same 
wisdom  that  confounded  the  primitive  language  at  Babel,  and  scattered 
the  swarming  millions  of  Asia,  impelled  the  early  occupants  of  our 
continent  to  move  onward  like  advancing  waves  of  the  sea. 

In  these  strange  migrations,  some  chief  must  have  separated  from 
the  parent  multitude,  and  turned  his  flice  with  his  followers  toward 
the  South-west ;  and  finally  reaching  the  delectable  lands  of  all  the 
valley  of  the  lower  Mississippi,  there  established  what  was  afterwards 
luiown  as  the  tribe  of  the  Natchez. 

The  country  selected  is  of  surpassing  loveliness ;  for,  from  the  pre- 
cipitous bluff  that  so  unexpectedly  frowns  down  apon  the  Mississippi, 
inland,  to  where  the  nation  erected  its  great  mound,  is  one  continuous 
undulation  of  picturesque  scenery,  originally  enriched  with  groves  of 
live  oaks  and  magnolias.  It  was  really  a  fairy  land,  and  enough  of 
the  primitive  forest  still  remains  to  give  the  sanction  of  truth  to  the 
most  florid  description  of  it  preserved  in  legendary  lore. 

There  can  not  be  a  doubt,  that  st  the  time  these  nomadics  took 

It 


25S  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

pos^fc'siiioii  of  their  adopted  homes,  that  the  surrounding  country  was 
comparatively  without  inhabitants ;  for  the  savage  and  warlike  nations 
which  lived  in  the  neighborhood  never  would  have  permitted  the  Nat- 
chez, when  iu  their  infancy,  to  occupy  lands,  which  afterward  oven 
they  defended  more  by  moral  than  by  physical  force. 

As  fire-worshippers,  the  Natchez  displayed  their  Oriental  origiu, 
and  they  were  more  sincere  in  this  most  poetic  of  all  idolatries  than 
the  magi  of  the  East.  They  possessed  a  tradition  which,  unlike  the 
traditions  of  any  other  nation,  gallantly  ascribed  the  salvation  of  their 
race  to  a  woman.  This  was,  that  after  the  destruction  of  all  the  inha- 
bitants of  the  earth,  save  a  single  family,  which  family  was  about  to 
die  because  of  the  continued  darkness  of  the  heavens,  a  young  girl, 
inspired  with  the  wish  to  save  her  race,  threw  herself  into  the  fire  which 
was  used  as  a  light ;  and  that  no  sooner  was  her  body  consumed,  than 
rihe  arose  in  the  East,  surrounded  with  such  surpassing  glory  that  heij 
form  could  not  be  looked  upon  :  thus  enshrined,  she  became  the  chief, 
her  nearest  female  relation  being  elected  her  successor.  Hence  was 
established  the  worship  of  the  sun,  and  the  living  sacrifice  of  the  sacred 
fire,  together  with  the  belief,  that  so  long  as  it  blazed  upon  their  altars, 
tlio  Natchez  would  be  powerful  and  happy. 

The  Sun,  a  female  sovereign,  was  absolute  iu  power.  The  rewards 
of  the  chase,  and  of  the  cultivation  of  the  soil,  were  placed  under  her 
charge,  implying,  that  they  were  the  results  of  her  genial  rays,  and 
through  her,  as  if  direct  from  the  hands  of  Providence,  they  were  dis- 
tributed among  the  people. 

The  Natchez  must  have  rapidly  increased  after  their  cstablislmieut 
"11  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi ;  for  their  tradition  was,  that  in  the 
first  century  of  their  settlement,  they  erected  those  monuments  of 
industry  ou  which  to  erect  their  temples  and  bury  their  dead,  the 
remains  of  which  are  so  much  admired  to  this  day.  Tlieir  great  work 
was  built  upon  a  hill,  where  they  believed  fire  foil  from  the  sun,  indi- 
cating that  their  wanderings  were  at  an  end.  This  series  of  mounds, 
the  most  remarkable  in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  jiave  been  almost 
entirely  overlooked  by  the  curious  in  such  relies  of  ancient  days. 

A  natural  hillock  was  levelled  upon  the  top,  and  used  as  the  foun- 
dations of  the  mounds,  the  only  example  known.     Upon  a  base  thus 


TRADITIONS  OF  THE  NATCHEZ.  259 

prepared  was  raised  the  grand  elevation  for  the  great  temple  of  the 
Sun,  and  the  inferior  works  used  for  defence,  and  the  graves  of  the 
nobles.  In  examining  these  singular  ruins,  now  covered  with  trees  of 
a  century's  growth,  it  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  them  rising  in  their 
perfection  from  the  open  plain,  their  summits  smoking  with  sacrificial 
fires,  and  covered  with  priests  and  people.  It  was  only  upon  the 
great  mound,  and  at  the  festival  of  fruits,  that  the  Sun  showed  herself 
to  the  multitude.  Attired  in  robes  of  white  cotton,  adorned  with 
feathers,  and  her  breast  glistening  with  various  brilliant  stones,  she 
assisted  in  the  early  greeting  of  her  supposed  ancestor,  and  as  the  god 
of  day  ascended  in  the  East,  and  shot  his  bright  rays  across  the  land- 
scape, they  first  of  all  fell  uj)on  the  sacred  priestess,  and  were  reflected 
back  in  ten  thousand  rays,  which  were  regarded  by  the  worshippers, 
as  a  recognition  of  sympathy  and  acknowledged  relationship. 

According  to  the  belief  of  the  Natchez,  the  extinction  of  the  fires 
of  the  temple  would  be  the  signal  for  their  destruction  ;  thus  having 
it  would  seem,  with  some  other  nations  mentioned  in  history,  a  fore- 
boding of  their  extermination.  A  brief  period  before  the  French 
invaded  their  homes,  by  some  accident  this  fearful  catastrophe  hap- 
pened, and  the  nation  was  consequently  suffering  from  superstitious 
depression.  It  was  therefore  that  they  fell  a  comparatively  easy  prey 
to  the  superior  arms  and  discipline  of  the  European  invader. 

Ill  their  struggle  for  existence,  after  an  obstinate  defence,  they  were 
first  driven  from  the  banks  of  the  river,  but  again  rallying,  they 
gathered  for  their  final  struggle  at  the  base  of  the  great  mound.  As 
soon  as  the  tribe  thought  themselves  sufficiently  prepared,  they  pro- 
voked attack,  and  their  last  great  battle  took  place.  The  Sun-Chief 
was  killed,  and  the  survivors,  believing  that  the  dark  prophecy  that 
rested  upon  the  Natchez  had  been  fulfilled,  as  a  crowd  of  fl)^ng  fugi- 
tives retreated  west  of  the  Mississippi,  and  after  various  misfortunes, 
were  lost,  or  became  absorbed  among  the  Oumas,  the  Tensas,  and 
other  friendly  tribes. 

The  enlightened  mind,  in  speaking  of  the  Natchez,  explains  their 
destruction  upon  philosophical  reasons.  It  was  the  weak  giving  wa}' 
to  the  strong  ;  but  their  fate  appealed  to  more  sympathising  and  more 
Imaginative  hearts,  who  have  softened  the  story  of  their  ruin,  stripped 


2G0  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

It  of  its  harsher  features,  and  left  it  so  interwoven  with  golden  light, 
that  we  half  forget  the  unwelcome  truth,  and  think  hopefully  of  the 
departed.  The  Southern  Indians  of  our  day,  when  sitting  beside  their 
"  council  fires,"  and  speaking  of  the  times  that  are  past,  tell  us : 

That  a  young  Natchez  chief,  famed  for  his  virtue  and  bravery, 
became  enamored  of  a  beautiful  maiden,  and  that  his  passion  was 
returned.  His  interviews  were  stolen  ones,  and  few  and  far  between. 
On  one  occasion,  when  the  young  chief  was  keeping  his  night-watch 
c^•er  the  sacred  fire  of  the  temple,  he  heard  the  plaintive  song  of  a 
day-bird ;  and  flying  to  the  neighboring  groves,  there  met  his  mistress, 
and  exchanged  the  solemn  vows  of  eternal  love.  Koturning  to  the 
temple,  the  young  chief,  to  his  horror,  discovered  that  the  flame  had 
expired  in  his,  unconsciously  to  him  long  absence,  and  the  altars, 
which  had  ever  glowed  with  living  fire,  were  cold. 

Alarm  filled  the  young  warrior's  breast ;  despair  was  impressed 
upon  his  features ;  and  as  the  sun  illumined  the  hills,  and  made  the 
homes  of  the  Natchez  glisten  in  its  refreshing,  and  to  them  sacred 
radiance,  there  was  no  response  of  ascending  sacrifice,  and  the  chief 
priests  rushed  with  precipitation  to  the  temple,  to  learn  the  cause. 

Terrible  indeed  were  the  wailings  that  ascended  from  the  soul- 
stricken  worshippers.  It  was  deemed  that  a  curse  had  fallen  upon  the 
nation ;  that  its  speedy  extinction  was  shadowed  forth ;  and  amidst 
the  excitement,  by  order  of  the  great  Sun,  the  young  maiden  was  sacri 
ficed,  not  only  as  a  propitiation,  but  that  her  surpassing  beauty  should 
no  longer  tempt  the  guardians  of  the  sacred  altars  to  neglect  their 
vigils. 

The  young  chief  was  doomed  to  make  expiation  in  fiistings  and 
prayers ;  and  after  due  ceremonies,  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  centre 
of  the  great  mound,  there  to  remain  until  he  wooed  back  the  lost  fire 
from  heaven.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  essayed  the  comparatively  easy 
task  of  lighting  the  proper  combustibles  by  rapid  friction.  Over- 
whelmed by  religious  fear,  his  strength  of  arm  appeared  to  have 
departed;  and  even  when,  from  long  and  patient  labor,  the  fire  was 
about  to  descend,  a  tear  of  regret  for  the  memory  of  his  mistress  would 
fill  upon  the  just-igniting  wood,  and  leave  his  interminable  task  to  bw 
again  renewed. 


TRADITIONS  OF  THE  NATCHEZ.  2Gi 

Although  years,  yea,  centuries,  have  passed  away ;  although  the 
entrance  to  the  great  mound  has  crumbled  undistinguishably  into  the 
surrounding  mass,  and  huge  trees  have  usurped  the  places  of  the 
ascents  and  the  altars,  yet  the  old  Indians,  in  their  day-dreams,  visit 
the  young  chief,  who  is  still  in  the  centre  of  the  mound,  perseveringly 
engaged  in  his  labor  —  and  confidently  assert,  that  when  he  recovers 
liie  sacred  fire,  he  will  again  appear  at  the  altar,  and  that  the  Natchez, 
in  all  their  former  glory,  will  take  possession  of  their  now  desolated 
homes. 


I'm  §mm^  mt 


BT    JOHN     e.     SAXE. 


My  days  pass  pleasantly  away, 

My  nights  are  blest  with  sweetest  si  ?ep, 
I  feel  no  symptoms  of  decay, 

I  have  no  cause  to  mourn  nor  weep, 
My  foes  are  impotent  and  shy, 

Mj'  friends  are  neither  false  nor  cold ; 
And  yet,  of  late,  I  often  sigh, 

I  'ra  growing  old ! 

'  My  growing  talk  of  olden  times, 

My  growing  thirst  for  early  news, 
My  growing  apathy  to  rhymes, 

My  growing  love  of  easy  shoes, 
My  growing  hata  of  crowds  and  noise, 

My  growing  fear  of  taking  cold, 
All  whisper  in  the  plainest  voice, 
I  'm  growing  old  I 

I  'm  gro-sving  fonder  of  my  staff, 
I  'm  growing  dimmer  in  the  eyes, 

I  'm  growing  fainter  in  my  laugh, 
I  'm  growing  deeper  in  my  sighs, 

I  'm  growing  careless  of  my  dress, 
I  'm  growing  frugal  of  my  gold, 

I  'm  growing  wise.  I  'm  growing  —  yes^ 
I  'm  growing  old ! 


264  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

I  .see  it  in  my  changing  tafite, 
I  see  it  in  my  changing  hair, 

I  see  it  in  my  growing  waist, 
I  see  it  in  my  growing  heir ; 

A  tliousand  signs  proclaim  the  truth, 
As  plain  as  truth  was  ever  told, 

Tlxat  even  in  my  vaunted  youth, 
I  'm  growing  old  I 

Ah  me !  my  very  laurels  breathe 
The  tale  in  my  reluctant  ears, 

And  every  boon  the  Hours  bequeath, 
But  makes  me  debtor  to  the  Years! 

E'en  Flattery's  honied  words  declare 
The  secret  she  would  fain  withhold, 

And  tells  me  in  "  How  young  you  are  I" 
I  'm  growing  old  1 

Tlianks  for  the  years,  whose  rapid  flight 

My  sombre  muse  too  sadly  sings ! 
Thanks  for  the  gleams  of  golden  light 
That  tint  the  darkness  of  their  wings  I 
Tlio  light  that  beams  from  out  the  sky, 
Those  heavenly  mansions  to  unfold, 
Where  all  are  blest,  and  none  may  sigh, 
"I  'm  growing  old." 


^ktunb  %m. 


K     E      B     H     A     N 


The  finest  moral  trait  in  Kean  was  a  certain  spirit,  tenacity  of 
purpose,  and  lofty  confidence  in  himself,  whi"-.h  differed  widely  from 
presumption  or  conceit :  a  kind  of  instinctive  faith,  that  no  force  of 
circumstances  or  prescription  ever  quenched.  This  quality,  more 
easily  felt  than  described,  seems  the  prerogative  of  genius  in  all 
departments  of  life,  and  is  often  the  only  explicable  inspiration  that 
sustains  it  amid  discomfiture  and  privation.  It  runs,  like  a  thread 
of  gold,  through  the  dark  and  tangled  web  of  Kean's  career  —  lends 
something  of  dignity  to  the  most  abject  moment  of  his  life,  and 
redeems  from  absolute  degradation  his  moments  of  most  entire  self- 
abandonment.  Thus,  when  an  obscure  and  provincial  actor,  perform- 
ing Alexander  the  Great,  he  replied  indignantly  to  the  sarcasm  of  an 
auditor  in  the  stage-box,  who  called  him  Alexander  the  Little  :  "  Yes, 
Sir,  with  a  great  soul !"  and  exultingly  told  his  wife,  after  his  first 
great  success  in  London,  in  reply  to  her  anxious  inquiry  what  Lord 

Essex  thought  of  him  :  "  D n  Lord  Essex,  the  pit  rose  to  me ;" 

he  felt  that  the  appeal  of  genius  was  universal,  and  that  which 
stirred  in  his  blood  demanded  the  response  of  humanity.  This  con- 
sciousness of  natural  gifts  made  him  spurn  the  least  encroachment 
upon  his  self  respect,  however  poverty  weighed  him  down,  and  long 
before  fame  justified  to  the  world  his  claims.  He  rushed  for  ever 
away  from  the  house  of  his  earliest  protector,  because  of  a  careless 
remark  of  one  of  the  company  that  disavowed  his  equality  with  the 
children  of  the  family.  Whenever  an  inferior  part  was  allotted  him, 
he  fled  to  avoid  the  compromise  of  his  feelings ;  and  after  his  triumph 


266  THE    ATLANTIC    SOLVENIR. 

was  achieved,  poured  a  bowl  of  punch  over  the  stage-manager's  head 
at  Drury  Lane,  to  punish  his  impertinent  criticisms  at  the  first 
rehearsal.  The  same  proud  independence  led  him  to  avoid  the  social 
honors  of  rank.  lie  liked  professional  and  literary  men  because  he 
thought  they  truly  relished  and  understood  his  art.  The  restraints, 
the  cold  uniformity,  and  the  absence  of  vivid  interest  in  the  circles 
of  the  nobility,  either  oppressed  or  irritated  him,  and  he  chafed  until 
free  to  give  vent  to  his  humor,  passion,  and  convivial  tastes  among 
boon  companions. 

A  fine  audacity  and  that  abhorrence  of  the  conventional  we  find 
in  hunters,  poets,  and  artists  —  the  instinctive  self-assertion  of  a 
ivature  assured  that  its  own  resources  are  its  best  and  only  reliable 
means  of  success  and  enjoyment  —  thus  underlaid  Kean's  wayward  and 
extravagant  moods ;  and  while  it  essentially  interfered  with  his  popu- 
larity as  a  man,  it  was  a  primary  cause  of  his  triumph  as  an  actor ; 
for  no  histrionic  genius  more  clearly  owed  his  success  to  the  will. 
In  this  regard  he  was  a  species  of  Alfieri.  The  style  he  adopted,  the 
method  he  pursued,  and  the  aim  he  cherished,  were  neither  under- 
stood nor  encouraged  until  their  own  intrinsic  and  overwhelming 
superiority  won  both  the  critics  and  the  multitude.  The  taste  in 
England  had  been  formed  by  Kemble  and  his  school :  dignity, 
correctness,  grave  emphasis,  and  highly-finished  elocution  had  become 
the  standard  characteristics.  Kean  was  a  bold  innovator  upon  this 
system ;  he  trusted  to  nature  more  than  to  art,  or  rather  endeavored 
to  fuse  the  two.  Thus,  while  carefully  giving  the  very  shades  of 
manning  to  the  words  of  Shakspeare,  he  endeavored  to  personify  the 
character  —  not  according  to  an  eloquent  ideal,  but  with  human 
reality,  as  if  the  very  life-blood  of  Othello  and  Lear,  their  tempera- 
ments as  well  as  their  experience,  had  been  vitally  transferred  to  his 
frame  and  brain.  He  seemed  possessed  with  the  character  he  repre- 
sented ;  and,  throwing  mere  technical  rules  to  the  winds,  identified 
himself  through  passional  sympathy,  regulated  by  studious  con- 
templation, with  the  idiosyncrasies  of  those  whose  very  natures 
and  being  he  aspired  to  embody  and  develop. 

Kean  obeyed  the  instinct  of  genius,  when,  in  opposition  to  the 
management    at   Drury   Lane,  arranging   his   d6biU,  he  exclaimed, 


EDMUND    KEAN.  261 

"  Shylock  or  nothing  !"  In  that  peart  there  was  scope  for  his  intellec- 
tual energy,  opportunity  to  give  those  magical  shades  of  intensity 
and  throw  into  those  dark,  acute  features  the  infinite  power  of  ex- 
pression for  which  he  was  distinguished.  A  few  weeks  before  that 
memorable  evening,  his  first-born  son  had  died  in  a  provincial  town, 
and  in  all  the  agony  of  his  bereavement  he  had  been  obliged  to  act, 
to  gain  money  to  defray  the  funeral  expenses.  Thence  he  had 
gone  up  to  town,  and,  owing  to  a  misunderstanding  of  the  contract, 
for  months  endured  the  pressure  of  actual  want  and  the  heart-sickness 
of  hope  deferred.  The  season  was  unpropitious,  his  spirits  and 
energy  were  depressed  by  fasting,  affliction,  and  neglect.  While  he 
was  at  rehearsal,  his  wife  sold  one  of  her  few  remaining  articles 
of  apparel  to  obtain  him  a  dinner,  fortified  by  which  he  trudged 
through  the  snow  to  the  theatre.  The  series  of  triumphs  succeeding 
this  memorable  night  are  well  known.  The  overpowering  reality  of 
his  personation  gave  Lord  Byron  a  convulsive  fit,  caused  an  actress 
to  faint  on  the  stage,  and  an  old  comedian  to  weep,  replenished  the 
treasury  of  Drury  Lane,  electrified  the  United  Kingdom,  ushered  in 
a  new  theatrical  era,  and  crowned  him  with  sudden  prosperity  and 
fame.  His  star,  however,  set  in  clouds ;  his  last  appearance  in  Lon- 
don was  as  melancholy  as  his  first  was  brilliant ;  alienated  from  his 
family,  the  victim  of  excess  —  proud,  sensitive,  and  turbulent  —  his 
domestic  troubles  were  only  reconciled  just  before  his  death,  which 
came  as  a  relief  to  himself  and  those  with  whom  he  was  connected. 

"While  the  histrionic  achievements  of  Kean  identify  his  name 
with  the  progress  of  dramatic  art,  his  actual  life  and  habits  pertain 
rather  to  a  sphere  without  the  limits  of  civilization.  A  wild  vein 
belonged  to  his  very  nature,  and  seemed  indicative  of  gipsy  or  savage 
blood.  It  gleamed  sometimes  from  his  extraordinary  eyes,  when 
acting,  so  as  to  appal,  startle,  and  impress  every  class  of  observers. 
A  man  once  cried  out  in  the  pit  at  the  demoniacal  glare  of  his  optics, 
as  Shylock  meditating  revenge  on  his  creditor,  "  It  is  the  devil !" 
His  poet-biographer  compares  him  to  the  van-winged  hero  of  Para- 
dise Lost ;  and  West,  the  painter,  declared  he  had  never  been  so 
haunted  by  the  look  of  a  human  face  as  by  that  of  Kean.  Some- 
thing of  this  peculiar  trait  also  exhibited  itself  in  his  action  and  tones, 


268  THE    ATf-ANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

aiid  made  his  audience  thrill  with  the  fierce  energy  of  his  soul.  But 
while  it  thus  subserved  the  purposes  of  art,  and  was,  iu  fact,  an 
element  of  his  genius,  it  infected  his  private  life  with  a  reckless  and 
half-maniacal  extravagance  that  was  fostered  by  his  addiction  to 
stimulants,  an  unprotected  infancy,  and  the  precarious  and  baffled 
tenor  of  his  youth  and  early  manhood. 

When  we  bring  home  to  ourselves  this  erratic  behavior,  combined 
with  extreme  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  the  career  of  Kean,  as  a  man, 
seems  almost  as  remarkable  as  it  was  as  an  actor.  A  stage-Cupid  at 
two  years  of  age,  a  circus-rider  and  harlequin,  then  an  infant  prodigy 
reciting  Rolla ;  his  very  origin  disputed ;  now  the  slave  of  a  capri- 
cious, ignorant,  and  selfish  woman  ;  and  now  the  wayward  protege  of 
a  benevolent  lady ;  arranging  Mother  Goose  for  one  manager,  and 
taking  the  part  of  a  supernumerary  for  another;  reduced  to  such 
poverty  as  to  travel  on  foot,  his  wife  trudging  wearily  at  his  side, 
and  his  boy  clinging  to  his  back ;  at  one  time  swimming  a  river  with 
his  theatrical  wardrobe  in  a  bundle  held  by  the  teeth,  and,  at  another, 
for  whole  days,  half-famished,  and  his  wife  praying  at  her  lonely 
vigils  for  a  speedy  release  by  death  from  hopeless  suffl-ring ;  to-day 
dancing  attendance,  fur  the  hundredth  time,  at  Drury  Lane,  to  gain  the 
ear  of  the  director,  and  known  among  the  bystanders  only  as  "  the 
little  man  with  the  capes  ;"  and  to-morrow,  the  idol  of  the  town,  his 
dressing-room  besieged  by  lords  —  few  chronicles  in  real  life  display 
more  vivid  and  sudden  contrasts  than  the  life  of  Kean.  The  mer- 
curial temper  that  belonged  to  him  was  liable,  at  any  moment,  to  be 
excited  by  drink,  sympathy,  an  idea,  or  an  incident.  One  night  it 
induced  him  to  disturb  the  quiet  household  where  he  lodged,  by 
jumping  through  a  glass  door ;  another,  to  seize  the  heads  of  the 
leaders  attached  to  his  majesty's  mail-coach  and  attempt  a  wrestling- 
match.  In  Dublin,  it  winged  his  flight  for  hours  through  the  dusky 
streets,  with  a  mob  of  screaming  constables  at  his  heels.  It  inspired 
him  to  engiige  in  midnight  races  on  horseback.  In  more  quiet  mani 
festations,  it  induced  him  to  make  a  pet  of  a  lion,  and  a  sacred  relic 
of  the  finger-bonc  of  Cook ;  and  prompted  him,  to  his  wife's  extreme 
annoyance,  to  retire  to  bed  in  the  costume  of  a  monkey.  At  one 
time  it  led  him  to  muse  for  hours  in  a  church-vard  ;  and,  at  another. 


EDMUND    KEAN.  269 

to  try  country-life  on  his  estate  at  Bute,  or  haunt  the  "  Red  Lidn" 
and  the  "  Coal-Hole."  In  England  it  made  him  a  volunteer  jockey  at 
a  race ;  in  Italy,  a  fascinating  story-teller  and  mimic  to  the  monks  of 
road-side  convents ;  and  in  America,  caused  him  to  be  duly  inaugurated 
chief  of  a  tribe  of  Indians. 

There  is  no  actor  of  whom  such  instances  of  arrogance  toward 
the  public  and  individuals  are  related ;  but  it  is  to  be  observed  that 
they  generally  originated  in  exasperated  feeling,  caused  by  undeserved 
neglect  or  gross  misappreciation  ;  and  charity  will  ever  make  allow- 
ance for  the  inevitable  results  of  an  incongruous  and  homeless  child- 
hood.    Kcan's  father  nearly  ruined  his  son's  physique  by  employing 
him,  at  a  tender  age,  to  figure  in  pantomime ;  timely  surgical  aid 
having  only  saved  his  limbs  from  utter  deformity.     The  redeeming 
influences  of  his  early  years  were  the  benevolent  intervention  of  Dr. 
Drury,  who,  recognizing  his  promise,  sent  him  to  Eton ;    and  the 
patient  teachings  of  Miss  Tidswell,  an  actress  of  Drury  Lane.     That 
he  was  born  with  a  genius  for  the  stage  is  evinced  by  the  fact  that 
at  the  age   of  thirteen   his  Cato   and   Hamlet   satisfied  provincial 
audiences ;  and  his  recitation  of  Satan's  Address  to  the  Sun,  from 
Paradise  Lost,  won  royal  approbation  at  Windsor.     His  talent  for 
feigning  served  him  occasionally  more  practical  benefit  than  that 
derived  from  its  entertaining  quality  ;  as,  when  he  was  released  from 
a  rash  engagement  on  board  ship,  as  cabin-boy,  for  pretended  deaf- 
ness, and  escaped  the  indignation  of  a  London  audience  he  wantonly 
disappointed,  by  a  well-acted  dislocation  of  the  shoulder. 

If  Kean's  early  circumstances  were  adverse  to  his  moral,  they 
were,  in  many  respects,  highly  favorable  to  his  professional  develop- 
ment. The  long  apprenticeship  he  served  to  the  stage,  embracing 
every  grade  of  character  and  almost  all  functions  of  a  player,  made 
him  thoroughly  at  home  on  the  boards,  and  induced  much  of  his  ease, 
tact,  and  facility ;  his  circus  experiences  and  habits  of  active  life  gave 
both  vigor  and  suppleness  to  his  frame ;  while  the  vagrant  career  he 
led,  brought  him  in- view  of  all  kinds  of  character  and  phases  of  life, 
by  which  he  observantly  profited  to  a  degree  that  only  those  intimate 
with  him  fully  realized.  While  in  this  country,  his  genius  excited 
the  intelligent  admiration,  and  his  recklessness  the  benevolent  care  of 


270  TMF.    ATLANTIC    SOCVKNIR. 

a  professional   gentleman,  who  became  his  constant  associate  and 
friend.     From  hin^  I  learn  that  the  versatility  of  Kean's  accomplish- 
ments was  quite  as  remarkable  as  the  intensity  of  his  acting  and  the 
extravagance  of  his  moods.     lie  would  often  enchain  an  intellectual 
circle  at  a  fashionable  party,  by  his  exquisite  vocalism,  the  eflfect  of 
which  was  inexplicable  to  those  who  listened  to  his  limited  and  unmu- 
sical voice ;  or  by  the  rich  anecdotes  or  shrewd  comments  of  his  table- 
talk;   and  when  released  from  this  to  him  intolerable  social  thral- 
dom, work  off  the  nervous  reaction  induced  by  so  many  hours  of 
restraint,  by  throwing  half-a-dozen  summersets  with  the  celerity  and 
grace  of  a  practised  harlequin.     lie  was,  indeed,  a  compact  embodi- 
ment of  muscles  and  nerves ;  his  agility  and  strength  were  such  that 
his  frame  instantly  obeyed  his  will  from  the  bound  of  a  gladiator  to 
the  expressive  restlessness  of  quivering  fingers.     His  voice  ranged 
through  every  note  and  cadence  of  power  and  sensibility  ;  now  by  a 
whisper  of  tenderness  bringing  tears  from  calluus  men,  and  the  next 
moment,  chilling  their  very  hearts  with  the  fierce  tones  of  an  impreca- 
tion.   But  these  remarkable  physical  endowments  would  have  merely 
subserved  the  narrow  purposes  of  the  athlete  or  the  mimic,  had  they 
not  been  united  to  a  mind  of  extraordinary  sagacity  and  a  face  of 
unequalled  expression ;  by  virtue  of  these  he  rendered  them  the  instru- 
ments  of  efficient  art.     The  professors  at  Edinburgh  were  disap- 
pointed, after  seeing  him  perform  and  hearing  him  converse,  to  find 
that  he  had  no  original  theory  of  elocution  to  broach,  and  no  striking 
principles  of  oratory  to  advocate.     His  touches  were  a  composite  and 
individual  result,  no  more  to  be  formally  imparted  than  the  glow  of 
poetry  or  the  zest  of  wit;  they  grew  out  of  profound  observation 
fused  into  a  practical  issue  by  the  inspiration  of  genius. 

O^leridgc  said  that  to  see  Kean  act  was  like  reading  Shakspcarc 
by  lightning.  The  spell  of  his  penetrating  eyes  and  half-Jewish  phy- 
siognomy was  not  more  individual  than  his  style  of  personation ;  and 
the  attempt  to  transfer  some  of  his  points  to  another  has  almost  inva- 
riably produced  an  incongruous  effect.  Ilis  oxjjilable  temperament 
was  another  secret  of  his  magnetism  and  his  foibles;  while  it  enabled 
him  wondi-rfiilly  to  engage  the  sympathies  of  an  audience,  it  rendered 
him  r.ohle  to  be  overcome  by  the  least  moral  or  physical  excitement, 


EDMUND    KEAN.  211 

and  made  him  the  slave  of  impulse.  Regularly  in  New- York,  every 
afternoon,  he  seized  the  copy  of  an  evening  journal  inimical  to  him, 
Avith  the  tongs,  rang  for  a  servant,  and  sent  it  away  in  this  manner; 
while,  at  the  same  time,  he  scrupulously  laid  aside  a  guinea  a  week, 
during  the  whole  of  his  sojourn,  to  reward  the  faithful  services  of  a 
poor  servant :  often  drawn  by  his  kind  guardian  from  a  haunt  of 
debauchery,  just  in  time  to  appear  on  the  stage,  he  would,  at  others, 
attire  himself  like  a  finished  gentleman,  mix  in  the  most  refined  soci- 
ety, and  manifest  a  noble  scorn  of  money,  and  an  absolute  reverence 
for  mental  superiority,  that  excited  involuntary  respect.  Kean,  the 
dissolute  man,  the  inebriated  boon  companion,  quoting  Latin,  the 
generous  and  loyal  friend,  the  funny  mimic,  and  the  great  imperson- 
ator of  Shakspeare,  seemed  like  so  many  different  beings,  with  some- 
thing identical  in  the  eyes,  voice,  and  stature :  and  as  marvellous  a 
disparity  marked  his  fortunes  —  it  being  scarcely  credible  that  the 
same  man  whose  appearance  brought  a  solitary  sixpence  to  the  Dum- 
fries theatre,  is  he  who,  glittering  with  the  ornaments  of  Garrick,  filled 
Drury  Lane  to  suffocation  for  entire  seasons ;  or  that  the  luxurious 
apartments,  crowded  with  men  of  note,  are  tenanted  by  him  whose 
wife  for  years  kept  vigils  of  penury.  It  is  creditable  to  Kean's  mag- 
nanimity under  these  bewildering  transitions,  that  he  never  played 
the  tyrant ;  that  he  was  uniformly  kind  to  poor  and  inferior  actors, 
and  manifested  a  spirit  above  envy.  After  seeing  old  Garcia  perform 
Otello  in  New- York,  he  sent  him  a  costly  gift  in  token  of  his  admira- 
tion ;  he  candidly  acknowledged  the  superiority  of  Talma,  and  labored, 
with  genuine  zeal,  to  commemorate  the  histrionic  fame  of  Cooke. 

It  is  common  to  speak  of  great  acting  or  vocal  ism  as  indescriba- 
ble ;  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  this  is  doubtless  true ;  but  distinctness 
of  style  is  characteristic  of  genius  in  all  things,  and  an  intellectual 
observer  can  adequately  report  even  the  evanescent  charms  of  dra- 
matic personation  when  harmoniously  conceived  and  efficiently  embo- 
died. Accordingly,  we  derive  from  the  criticisms  and  reminiscences 
of  Kean's  intelligent  admirers,  a  very  clear  idea  of  his  general  merits. 
It  is  obvious  that  these  consisted  of  simplicity  and  earnestness ;  that, 
endowed  with  fiery  passions  and  a  sagacious  intellect,  he  boldly  under- 
took  to   represent  Shakspeare,  not   according  to   any  prescriptive 


272  THE    ATI-AXTIC    SOUVENIR. 

model  or  rules  of  art,  but  through  his  individual  reflection  and  sym 
pathy.  Like  the  great  master  of  the  written  drama,  he  followed 
closely  the  intimations  of  nature ;  cast,  as  it  were,  self-consciousness 
away,  and  assimilated  the  actual  elements  of  human  life  with  his  own 
action  and  expression.  Hence  the  truth  of  his  violent  contrasts  —  the 
light  and  shade  of  art.  Hence  the  frequency  and  effect  of  his  brief, 
suggestive,  and  thrilling  exclamations,  that  made  a  single  word  or 
interjection  reveal  infinite  woe,  joy,  surprise,  or  madness.  It  is  for 
the  same  reason,  that,  upon  refined  minds  and  earnest  hearts,  his  act- 
ing unfolded  ever  new  beauty  and  truth,  as  described  by  Dana,  whose 
criticism,  when  Kean  road,  he  exclaimed,  "This  man  understands 
me."  By  this  firm,  and,  if  we  may  so  say,  subtle  yet  instinctive 
adherence  to  nature,  a  certain  grandeur  and  effl'Ct,  only  yielded  her 
genuine  votaries,  seemed  to  invest  and  glorify  the  actor,  so  that  his 
most  incidental  attitudes  and  by-play  wore  a  reality  undiscoverable  in 
the  most  elaborate  efforts  of  inferior  performers.  To  the  same  prin- 
ciple we  ascribe  his  versatility.  Each  character  was  a  distinct  study. 
Where  his  consciousness  was  at  fault  in  suggesting  the  most  authentic 
manner,  tone,  or  expression,  he  had  recourse  to  observation ;  he 
reflected  deeply,  and  appeared  to  identify  himself,  by  the  process, 
with  the  being  he  was  to  enact,  until  his  very  soul  became  imbued 
with  the  melancholy  of  Hamlet  the  insanity  of  Lear,  and  the  mental 
agony  of  Othello. 


Imul 


BY       CHABLKS       O.       KASTMAS. 


" '  So,'  muttered  the  dark  and  miising  prince,  unconscious  of  the  throng,  '  so  perishes  the  Eica 
of  Iron.  Low  lies  the  last  Baron  that  could  control  and  command  the  people.  The  Age  of  Force 
expires  ■nith  kiiiirhthood  and  deeds  of  arms.  And  over  this  dead  great  man  I  see  the  new  cycl« 
dawn.      Ilflppy,  henceforth,  he  who  can  plot,  and  scheme,  and  fawn,  and  smile.' " 

"Last  of  the  Baeons." 


An'd  so  the  Race  of  Iron  passed  — 

So  Barnet's  bloody  field 
Saw,  cold  and  still,  its  lion  heart 

Lie  crushed  with  Warwick's  shield ; 
And  when  the  victor's  trumpet  rang 

Above  his  fallen  head. 
The  age  of  knightly  deeds  had  passed  — 

n!he  Baron-power  was  dead. 

Lord  of  a  hundred  baronies, 

Chief  of  a  mighty  race, 
His  hghtest  word  the  people's  law, 

The  throne  his  knotted  mace ; 
Girt  by  liis  more  than  royal  host, 

He  heard  his  war-trump  ring, 
And  towered  among  his  barons  bold, 

Too  proud  to  be  a  king. 

But  Time  was  working  wondrous  change, 

And  from  his  native  realm 
"Were  passing  fa.st  the  Barons'  rule, 

The  haubert  and  the  helm. 
IS 


214  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

The  land  was  dealt  to  nobles  new, 
And  men  of  foreign  birth, 

And  London  loons  were  swarming  round 
The  broad  old  Norman  hearth. 

His  Age  had  perished,  and  the  Race 

That  gave  the  Age  renown 
Fell  with  it,  and  the  Castle  bowed 

In  silence  to  the  Town. 
Low  lay  its  great  and  mighty  Chief| 

Its  last  and  noblest  man. 
And  dawning  o'er  his  broken  brand 

The  Age  of  Trade  began : 

The  Ago  when  Barter  sneered  at  Birth, 

And  parchment  pedigrees 
Outweighed  the  names  the  Normans  bore 

Across  the  stormy  seas ; 
When  shone  no  more  the  honest  brow 

Beneatli  the  burgonot. 
And  men  began  to  fawn,  and  smile, 

And  cheat,  and  lie,  and  plot: 

When  knaves  trod  on  the  knightly  heel, 

And  Avarice,  like  a  rust. 
Eat  out  the  brave  old  chivalry, 

And  swords  grew  thick  with  dust ; 
When  churls  and  serfs  grew  fat  with  gaiiv 

And  villains  bought  the  land. 
And  scorned  the  iron  men  of  yore, 

The  battle-axe  and  brand. 

The  pen  usurped  the  sword ;  t^o  loom, 

The  mace ;  the  plough,  the  spear ; 
And  Agriculture  cut  the  grain 

Where  rang  the  battle  cliocr ; 
And  men  began  to  feel  the  rule 

Of  Trade,  more  potent  grown 
Than  baron  grim,  or  iron  earl, 

Or  monarch  on  his  throne. 


BARNET.  275 

'T  was  best,  perhaps :  yet  from  the  Agv 

"When  trick  and  traffic  came ; 
When  knights  turned  knaves,  and  ladies  faii 

Grew  false  to  woman's  fame ; 
The  Age  in  mincing  merchant-kings 

And  London  tailors  great ;  ' 

U'hen  craft  and  cunning,  fawn  and  fraud, 

Began  to  rule  the  state : 

We  turn,  great  Baron !  to  the  men 

Who  crowned  thy  regal  tunes, 
Admire  then-  rude,  gigantic  strength, 

And  half  forget  their  crimes. 
The  castle  nursed  a  mighty  race  — 

A  race  of  Nature's  mould ; 
And  worth  meant  something  more  than  wealth, 

And  grandeur,  more  than  gold. 

Those  monarch  earls  and  lion  lords, 

And  barons  stout  and  brave. 
Despised  the  crawling  sycophant, 

The  sleek  and  cringing  knave ; 
Their  grim  baronial  banners  told 

Of  battles  they  had  fought ; 
Of  glory  passed  from  sire  to  son. 

And  not  of  titles  bought ! 

But  trade  and  traffic,  stock  and  steam, 

The  platter  and  the  plough. 
The  mallet  and  the  milliner 

Are  lord  and  lady  now. 
The  Castle  crowns  the  mousing  mart, 

The  Palace  sails  the  deep, 
Ambition  mounts  to  bantam  hens, 

And  chivalry  to  sheep. 

The  Earl  discusses  early  blues, 

The  Baron  runs  to  seed, 
And  Fame  combines  a  purgative^ 

And  SkiU  invents  a  mead ; 


376  THE    ATLAXTIC    SOUVEKIR. 

Nobility  is  slock  ami  starch. 
And  Greatness  fat  sirloin ; 

And  TVortb  and  Qu:ility  mx-  found 
In  calico  and  coin. 


fROM  AN  UNPUBLISHED  MANUSCRIPT 


HAMILTON       MTKBi 


Baltus  Van  Kleeck  left  the  world  without  disposing  of  that  por- 
tion  of  it  which  he  claimed  to  own,  and  when  his  pretty  daughter 
Getty  became,  by  operation  of  law,  sole  proprietress  of  several 
square  miles  of  the  terrestrial  globe,  without  any  guardian  or  man 
of  business  to  guide  or  instruct  her  in  its  management,  her  position 
was  one  of  no  little  embarrassment.  Not  that  she  would  have  so 
regarded  it  had  she  been  left  quite  to  herself  in  exercising  her  sove- 
reignty, for  Getty  was  an  easy,  good-natured  soul,  who  said  yes  to 
every  body's  advice,  and  to  all  applications  for  favors. 

Not  a  tenant  but  would  have  had  his  rent  lowered,  or  his  house 
repaired,  or  some  privilege  granted,  or  restriction  removed,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  perpetual  interference  of  Aunt  Becky,  a  shrivelled, 
nervous  old  lady,  who  was  kept  in  a  continual  state  of  excitement  by 
the  fear  that  her  niece  would  be  imposed  upon. 

"Don't  you  do  it,  Getty!"  were  the  words  with  which  she 
usually  burst  in  upon  these  conferences,  spectacles  on  nose,  without 
waiting  to  hear  the  specific  subject  of  negotiation. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what.  Aunt,"  said  the  heiress,  one  day,  after  one 
of  these  interviews,  from  which  the  applicant  had  retired  discomfited 
by  the  very  first  gleam  of  Madame  Becky's  glasses,  "I  must  have 
an  agent  to  manage  these  matters,  for  they  are  quite  beyond  my 
comprehension.     What  with  farms  to  hire,  and  farms  to  seU,  and 


27S  THE    ATLANTIC    SOU\TENIR. 

Stock  to  be  disposed  of,  mid  rents  to  be  collected,  I  shall  go  crazy  ;  I 
know  I  shall.     I  must  have  an  agent." 

"  What  fur,  then,  would  you  have  an  agent  ?"  said  the  dame,  in  a 
loud  key,  scowling  meanwhile  over  the  black  rims  of  her  spectacles. 
"  To  cheat  you  out  of  every  thing,  and  grow  rich  on  your  money, 
hey?" 

"  No,  Aunt ;  some  good,  reliable  man " 

"  Good,  reliable  fiddlestick,  Getty  !" 

"  I  say  no.  Aunt," 

"  I  say  yes,  child.  He  will  charge  you  half  for  taking  care  of 
your  property  ;  and  he  '11  run  away  with  the  rest.  Do  n't  talk  to  me 
about  agents." 

Getty  had  never  divested  herself  of  the  dread  with  which,  from 
childhood,  she  had  regarded  her  scolding  relative,  and  so,  without 
fully  resolving  either  to  carry  or  yield  the  point,  she  sought  to  escape 
further  altercation,  at  present,  by  not  pressing  it. 

"  i)at  these  repairs,  aunt,"  she  said,  "  which  are  so  much  needed 
for  these  poor  men  1" 

"  It  is  no  such  thing !  There  arc  no  repairs  wanted.  Why,  one 
would  think  the  houses  and  fences  had  all  tumbled  down  the  moment 
poor  Baltus  was  gone.  It  is  no  such  thing,  I  say.  They  are  well 
enough.  I  have  been  in  every  house  on  the  estate  within  a  fortnight, 
and  they  are  well  enough." 

"  But  Mr.  Jones,  who  has  eight  children,  can  't  make  his  rent  out 
of  the  farm." 

"  Let  him  give  it  up,  then,  to  some  one  who  can  What  business 
has  he  with  so  many  children  ?" 

"And  Mr.  Smith  has  lost  one  of  his  best  oxen," 

"  He  must  take  better  care  of  his  oxen,  then.  He  need  not 
expect  us  to  pay  him  for  it ;  I  can  tell  him  that." 

"  But  I  gave  him  ten  dollars,  at  all  events,"  replied  Getty,  not 
without  alarm. 

"TVn  dollars,  child!  Well  now,  did  ever  any  body  hear  the 
like  of  that  ?  Ten  dollars  to  that  idle,  whimpering  fellow  !  Why, 
Getty,  you  will  be  in  the  poor-house  in  a  year,  if  that  is  the  way 
you  are  going  on  ;  that  you  will.     Ten  dollars  T 


A    DUTCH    BELLE.  219 

Becky  could  hardly  throw  accent  enough  upon  these  two  words 
to  express  her  appreciation  of  the  magnitude  of  the  waste. 

"  I  dare  say  it  was  too  much,"  said  Getty,  who  had  always  been 
accustomed  to  give  way  to  her  imperious  aunt,  and  had  not  the 
courage  to  disenthral  herself  from  her  tyranny,  "  but  he  told  a  very 
pitiful  story." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  they'll  tell  pitiful  stories  enough,  if  they  can  only  find 
any  one  silly  enough  to  believe  them.  But  I  '11  see  to  it  that  there  is 
no  more  such  throwing  away  of  Baltus's  money.    Give  me  the  key !" 

Getty  submissively  took  from  a  side-pocket  a  small  bunch  of 
keys,  and  slipping  the  smallest  off  the  steel-ring  which  held  them 
together,  handed  it  to  her  aunt.  No  sooner,  however,  had  she  done 
so  than  the  absurdity  of  the  command  and  compliance  became 
apparent  to  her,  and,  with  rising  wrath,  she  was  about  to  recall  her 
act,  when  her  eyes  met  the  dark  scowl  of  the  old  lady,  and  yielding 
to  the  force  of  habit,  she  remained  quiet. 

Now  Becky's  conduct,  harsh  as  it  seemed,  was  altogether  caused 
by  excessive  anxiety  for  her  niece's  interest ;  for  she  was,  to  the 
full  extent,  as  honest  as  she  was  crabbed.  She  felt  her  responsibility 
as  the  only  surviving  adult  relative  of  her  brother,  and  as  a  sort 
of  natural  guardian  both  of  the  heiress  and  her  estates,  a  position 
which  she  was  by  no  means  desirous  of  retaining  longer  than  the  wel- 
fare of  Gertrude  required  it. 

Her  only  hope  of  relief  from  her  selfimposed  duties  was  in 
seeing  Gertrude  married  to  some  "  stiddy,  sober  man  ;"  but  on  this 
point  she  had  a  morbid  anxiety  even  greater  than  that  which  related 
to  the  property  ;  for  she  was  in  constant  trepidation  lest  the  heiress 
should  fall  a  victim  to  some  needy  fortune-hunter,  in  which  class  she 
ranked  all  suitors  who  did  not  follow  the  plough,  and  wear  homespun. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  question  more  than  one  presuming  beau 
as  to  his  intentions ;  and  one  timid  young  man  who  had  been  a  whole 
month  accumulating  courage  enough  to  make  a  first  call  upon  Ger- 
trude, was  so  frightened  by  the  fierce  manner  in  which  Aunt  Becky 
asked  him  what  he  wanted,  that  he  only  stammered  out  something 
about  having  got  into  the  wrong  house,  and  retreated  without  ever 
seeing  the  object  of  his  hopes. 


280  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

Strangely  enough  too,  although  Getty  knew  her  aunt's  conduct  in 
this  instance,  and  her  general  asperity  toward  gentlemen  visitors,  she 
did  not  seem  to  resent  it,  or  to  be  rendered  at  all  unhappy  by  it ; 
nay,  she  was  even  suspected  of  rejoicing  at  so  easy  a  mode  of  escap- 
ing the  persecution  of  lovers.  She  was  unwilling,  however,  that  the 
imputation  of  inhospitality  or  impoliteness  should  rest  upon  her 
family ;  and  on  this  point  she  remonstrated  with  the  duenna. 

"Let  the  molly-yhacks  stay  at  home,  then,"  said* Becky.  "What 
business  have  they  to  come  here  '  sparking  V  Let  them  stay  at  home, 
and  when  we  want  them  wc  '11  send  for  them." 

How  and  when  ILirry  Vrail's  acquaintance  with  Gertrude  began, 
it  would  be  diificult  to  say ;  but  for  several  preceding  years  his  hunt> 
ing  excursions  had  seemed  to  extend  more  often  through  her  father's 
forests  than  in  any  other  direction ;  and  the  silvery  stream  which 
tinkled  across  the  meadows  of  Mynheer  "Van  Kleeck  afforded  the 
finest-flavored  trout,  in  ILirry's  estimation,  of  the  whole  country 
around.  It  was  natural  enough  for  him,  on  these  expeditions,  to  stop 
occasionally  and  chat  with  old  Baltus  on  his  stoop  ;  and  sometimes  to 
leave  a  tribute  of  his  game  with  the  proprietor  of  the  domain  on 
which  it  was  bagged. 

If  a  string  of  finer  fish  than  usual  rewarded  his  afternoon's  labors 
the  larger  half  was  sure  to  be  left  at  Baltus's  door,  despite  all 
resistance ;  and  then  the  servant  was  to  be  instructed  in  the  art  of 
dressing  them,  and  Getty  was  to  be  taught  the  mystery  of  cooking 
them,  in  the  way  which  should  best  preserve  their  flavor. 

Sometimes,  too,  the  fatigued  youth  could  be  induced,  at  the  closo 
of  the  day,  to  remain  and  see  if  his  instructions  were  properly  fol- 
lowed, and  at  the  bountiful  board  of  the  Dutchman,  his  seat  chanced 
ever  to  be  beside  that  of  Getty,  who  saw  that  he  received  of  thf 
choicest  portions  of  his  own  gifts.  How  she  loaded  his  plate,  too, 
with  dainties  drawn  from  dark  closets,  the  key  of  which  was  seldom 
turned,  save  on  such  occasions  as  this!  How  the  thickest  cream 
filled  the  old-fashioned  silver  cream-pot  to  the  brim,  and  was  half- 
emptied  over  Harry's  strawberries,  or  on  Harry's  currants,  whilo  with 
her  own  white  hand,  she  pitched  the  largo  wheaten  slices,  quoit-like, 


A    DUTCH    BELLE.  2S1 

around  his  plate,  enjoining  upon  him  in  the  most  approved  fashion  of 
Dutch  hospitality  —  to  eat ! 

Nor  did  Harry  always  find  himself  sufficiently  refreshed  to  start 
for  home  as  soon  as  the  evening  meal  was  finished.  From  the  table 
to  the  long  covered  stoop  was  a  natural  and  easy  transition,  for  there 
the  air  was  fresh  and  cool ;  and  while  Baltus  planted  himself,  puffing, 
in  his  favorite  corner,  and  his  silent  vrow  sat  knitting  and  musing  at 
his  side,  and  pussy,  mireproved,  now  dandled  the  good  dame's  ball  of 
yarn  in  her  paws,  and  now,  tapping  it  fiercely,  pursued  it  rolling  far 
across  the  floor ;  while  the  swallows  darted  daringly  inside  the  pillars, 
and  skimming  close  to  the  ceiling,  flew  chirping  out  at  the  farthest 
opening,  Harry  and  Getty  chatted  and  laughed  together,  talking 
only  on  common  themes,  it  is  true,  yet  at  times  in  tones  which  might 
have  been  mistaken,  by  one  who  had  not  caught  the  words,  for  tones 
of  love. 

And  there  was  a  time,  when  yet  Harry's  father  was  alive,  and  was 
a  man  of  wealth,  that  the  young  man  dreamed  of  love.  It  was  pre- 
sumptuous, he  knew,  in  him,  even  then,  to  look  up  to  one  so  fair  and 
pure  as  sweet  Gertrude  seemed  to  him,  and  one  for  whom  so  many 
worthier  than  himself  would  be  certain  to  aspire.  Yet  he  could  not 
refrain  from  hoping,  though  with  so  faint  a  heart  that  he  never  found 
courage  to  declare,  or  even  most  remotely  to  hint  at,  the  love  which 
consumed  him.  But  if,  while  he  was  the  prospective  heir  of  great 
wealth,  he  felt  thus  unworthy  of  the  object  of  his  admiration,  how 
widely,  hopelessly  yawned  the  gulf  of  separation  between  them 
when  positive  poverty  became  his  lot !  With  a  pang  of  unspeakable 
intensity,  he  dismissed  the  bright  vision  which  had  gilded  his  heart, 
and  sought  no  more  to  recall  so  painful  and  illusive  a  dream. 

Yet,  strangely  enough,  while  he  held  himself  thus  unworthy  of 
Gertrude,  and  considered  that  his  changed  position  precluded  him 
from  the  right  to  offer  her  his  hand,  he  saw  no  such  obstacles  in  the 
way  of  his  brilliant  cousin  Tom,  now  about  to  enter,  with  a  victor's 
stride,  upon  that  field  which  he  had  so  ingloriously  relinquished. 

A  very  young  lawyer  was  Tom ;  decidedly  handsome,  and  pos- 
sessing a  moderate  amount  of  talent,  flanked  by  a  Tuost  immoderate 
and  inordinate  vanity.     But,  in  Harry's  estimation,  his  merits  were 


282  THE    ATLANTIC    SOtTVESIR. 

SO  many,  and  his  fortunes  so  sure,  that  he  might  almost  be  entitled  to 
wed  a  princess ;  and  although  he  was  incensed,  he  was  not  surprised 
at  the  very  confident  tone  in  which  the  young  disciple  of  Themis  had 
spoken  of  winning  the  beautiful  Gertrude,  if  he  chose.  Harry 
thought  so  himself:  he  had  often  thought  of  it  before,  and  had  won- 
dered why  his  cousin  had  never  seemed  to  notice  this  sparkling  jewel 
in  his  path,  any  more  than  if  it  were  but  commoft  crystal. 

But  true  love,  even  when  hopeless,  instinctively  revolts  at  the 
idea  of  seeing  the  beloved  object  won  by  another,  however  worthy ; 
and  Harry,  although  not  without  some  upbraidings  of  conscience,  had 
carefully  abstained  from  saying  any  thing  which  should  set  the  cur- 
rent of  Tom's  thoughts  in  the  direction  of  the  great  prize  he  had  dis- 
covered. Very  great,  therefore,  was  his  alarm,  when  his  good  grand- 
sire  had  made  his  abrupt  suggestion,  and  when  Tom  so  coarsely  and 
ungraciously  seemed  to  approve  it.  Yet  he  suppressed  his  great 
grief,  and  replied  truthfully  to  his  cousin's  inquiry,  failing,  in  his 
abundant  charity,  to  perceive  the  utter  selfislmess  which  had  so 
entirely  overlooked  himself,  or  any  predilections  which  he  might 
entertain. 

He  even  acceded  to  his  friend's  request  to  accompany  him  on  his 
first  visit  to  Getty ;  not  because  any  formal  introduction  was  needed, 
for  there  had  been  a  slight  acquaintance  existing  between  all  the  par- 
ties  from  childhood,  but  because  Tom  thought  it  would  serve  to  put 
him  at  once  on  a  better  and  more  fiimiliar  footing  with  the  heiress. 
And  so  it  did.  Getty  was  delighted  to  see  the  cousins,  for  the  lonely 
child  had  few  visitors,  and  she  appreciated  the  kindfiess  which  remem- 
bered her  bereavement  and  her  isolation.  So  very  amiable  and  cheer- 
ful did  she  appear,  so  naturally  gi-aceful  and  winning,  especially  when 
conversing  with  Harry,  with  whom  she  was  best  acquainted,  that  Tom 
was  positively  delighted  with  her,  and  on  his  return  homeward,  ho 
announced  his  fixed  determination  to  offer  himself  within  a  week. 

"  Won't  she  be  astonished  ?"  he  said. 

"It  will  be  rather  abrupt,"  replied  Harry.  "She  will  hardly 
expect  it  so  soon." 

"  Very  probable ;  but  when  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  the  sooner  it  is 
accomplished  the  better.  Beside,  it  would  be  scarcely  fair  to  keep 
'^'T  in  Rusponsft." 


A    DUTCH    BELLE.  283 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right." 

"  I  shall  not  hurry  her  to  fix  the  day,  you  know,  but  I  abhor  long 
courtships ;  and  these  things  can  be  as  well  settled  in  a  week  as  in  a 
year." 

"  But  if 

"  No,  no ;  a  '  but'  and  an  '  if  are  quite  too  much  in  one  sentence. 
I  tell  you  I  have  no  fears.  She  may  possibly  be  engaged  to  some 
boor ;  but  even  then,  Harry,  I  think  it  could  be  managed ;  do  n't 
your 

"  I  do  not  think  she  is  engaged ;  certainly  not  to  any  one  unwor- 
thy of  her." 

"  Then  we  are  on  safe  ground,"  said  Tom,  with  hilarity.  "  She 
seems  a  nice  girl,  and  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  get  on  capitally  toge- 
ther. She  shall  soon  lead  a  different  sort  of  life  from  her  present 
one,  cooped  up  in  an  old  brown  farm-house,  with  a  dragon  to  guard 
her.  .  Won't  she  open  her  eyes  when  we  go  to  the  city,  and  when  she 
gets  into  New- York  society  ?" 

Harry  began  to  open  his  eyes  a  little,  a  very  little,  to  his  cousins' 
character ;  but  the  force  of  education  was  strong,  and  he  had  been 
taught  to  believe  Tom  almost  perfect :  so  his  invincible  good  nature 
was  busy  in  meliorating  the  harsh  views  which  he  was  at  first  dis- 
posed to  take  of  his  conduct,  and  in  inventing  excuses  for  him. 
Beside,  he  had  a  strong  affection  for  Tom,  which  he  believed  to  be 
fully  reciprocated,  and  he  did  not  doubt  that  Getty  would  inspire  him 
with  the  same  fervent  love  which  his  own  heart  had  once  felt,  and 
even  now  with  difficulty  suppressed. 

He  did  not  pursue  the  subject,  nor  return  to  it  again,  excepting 
when  compelled  to  do  so  by  the  other,  whose  exuberant  spirits  ran 
wild  in  contemplation  of  the  fortunate  change  which  he  was  about  to 
make  in  his  affairs,  and  who  could  not  cease  to  wonder  that  he  had 
never  before  discovered  such  an  obvious  opportunity  for  his  personal 
advancement.  The  more  he  thought  of  his  project,  the  more  deeply 
his  heart  was  set  upon  it,  and  so  bountifully  was  he  supplied  with 
that  quality  of  mind  which  Harry  most  lacked,  self-esteem,  that  he 
had  no  misgivings  as  to  success. 

*  *  ***** 


•284  THE    ATLANTIC    SOUVENIR. 

"  What  has  come  over  you,  then,  Getty,  that  you  have  been  smg- 
singing  all  the  time,  up  stairs  and  down,  for  these  two  days  —  hey  ?" 
said  Becky  to  her  niece,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  after  the 
visit  of  the  cousins  Vrail. 

"  Oh !  nothing,  aunty,"  said  Gertrude,  hesitating.  "  I  often  sing 
like  that ;  do  not  I  ?" 

"  Not  often,  I  hope.  I  have  counted  these  stitches  three  times, 
and  every  time  your  ring-te-iddlety  has  made  me  forget  how  many 
there  are." 

The  dame's  tone  was  severe ;  and  as  Getty  spied  the  old  scowl 
taking  shape  on  her  forehead,  she  retreated  to  her  own  room  to  sing 
away  the  remainder  of  the  evening  by  herself  On  the  morrow,  also, 
her  heart  seemed  equally  light,  and  snatches  of  old  songs  were  escap- 
ing all  day  from  her  lips,  making  every  room  and  closet  vocal  with 
melody,  as  she  flitted  through  them  on  various  household  duties. 
Now  and  then  a  growl  responded  to  some  of  these  chirpings,  silencing 
them  for  a  while  only  to  break  forth  in  some  other  quarter  of  the 
house,  more  cheerily  than  ever.  As  evening  drew  nigh,  her  merri- 
ment gradually  subsided,  and  she  withdrew  to  her  own  apartment  in 
a  more  thoughtful  and  pensive  mood  —  not  long,  however,  to  remain 
unsought.  Her  heart  beat  quickly,  when,  listening,  she  heard  the 
voice  of  a  visitor  below,  and  for  quicker,  when  a  servant-girl  came  up 
and  informed  her  that  Mr.  Vrail  was  in  the  parlor,  and  wished  to 
see  her. 

Startled  but  not  surprised,  with  a  fluttering  heart  and  a  flushed 
face,  she  flew  to  the  glass  to  add  the  last  touch  to  the  simple  adorn- 
ments of  her  person,  and,  although  far  from  being  vain,  she  could  not 
forbear  contemplating  a  moment,  with  complacency,  the  sweet  pio- 
turc  reflected  by  the  faithful  mirror. 

She  waited  a  little  while  for  her  agitation  to  subside ;  for,  with 
that  rapid  breath  and  heightened  color,  and  with  something  very  like 
a  tear  glistening  in  her  eye,  she  was  unwilling  to  meet  her  visitor; 
but,  while  she  waited,  she  received  another  and  a  more  urgent  sum- 
mons. 

"You  had  better  come  down.  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  the  girl,  who 
seemed  to  guess  that  her  young  mistress  was  expecting  a  not  unwe) 


A    DUTCH    BELLE.  285 

come  visitor ;  '"  you  head  better  come  down,  for  your  aunt  Becky  is 
getting  ready  to  go  in  and  see  the  gentleman." 

This  announcement  did  not  have  a  tendency  to  allay  Miss  Van 
Kleeck's  excitement,  but  it  hastened  her  movements,  and  in  a  few 
moments  she  was  at  the  parlor-door,  which  she  entered  tremblingly, 
and  not  the  less  beautiful  for  her  fright.  Her  step  had  been  agile, 
but  she  stopped  as  if  spell-bound  just  within  the  door-way,  seemingly 
unable  to  comprehend  or  reply  to  the  very  civil . "  Good  evening" 
with  which  she  was  addressed  by  Mr.  Thomas  Vrail. 

The  changed  expression  of  her  countenance,  so  radiant  on  enter- 
ing, so  amazed  and  saddened  now,  did  not  foil  to  attract  the  notice  of 
that  young  gentleman,  v/ho,  sagely  attributing  it  to  the  awe  inspired 
by  his  presence,  at  once  condescendingly  resolved  to  reassure  the 
heart  of  his  charmer  by  his  suavity.  But,  although  Getty  recovered 
herself  so  far  as  to  say  "  Good  evening,"  and,  after  another  considera- 
ble pause,  to  ask  her  visitor  to  sit  down,  and  then  to  sit  down  herself 
on  the  farthest  edge  of  the  chair  most  remote  from  her  companion, 
she  did  not  seem  easily  reassured. 

Tom  said  it  was  a  pleasant  evening ;  and  Getty  said  "  Yes,"  very, 
very  fointly. 

Then  Tom  said  it  was  a  beautiful  walk  from  his  house  to  Miss 
Van  Kleeck's,  and  Getty  again  answered  with  a  monosyllable,  but  this 
time  a  little  more  distinctly. 

"A  very  delightful  walk,"  reiterated  the  suitor,  "  and  one  which  I 
hope  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  frequently." 

Miss  Van  Kleeck,  thinking  it  necessary  to  say  something  in  reply, 
and,  entirely  failing  to  comprehend  the  drift  of  the  remark,  "  hoped 
so,  too." 

Tom  now  felt  himself  to  be  getting  along  fast,  nay,  with  very  rail- 
road speed ;  so  he  ventured  to  draw  his  seat  a  little  nearer  to  Getty, 
to  her  manifest  trepidation,  for  her  eyes  turned  quickly  toward  the 
door,  and  she  seemed  to  be  contemplating  flight. 

But  it  was  one  of  Tom's  maxims  to  strike  while  the  iron  is  hotj 
and  if  he  had  been  so  well  convinced  of  having  made  a  favorable 
impression  on  the  evening  of  his  first  visit,  he  felt  doubly  sure  now, 
after  the  new  encouragement  he  had  received. 


2S6  THE    ATLANTIC    SOCVEKIR. 

"  I  may  be  a  little  hasty,  Miss  Van  Kleeck,"  he  said,  again  slightly 
lessening  his  distance  from  her,  "  but  I  have  had  the  presumption  to 
imagine  that  I  —  that  you  —  that  I " 

"Please  not  to  come  any  nearer,"  said  Getty,  hastily,  as  her 
suitor's  chair  exhibited  still  further  signs  of  locomotion. 

"Ah!  certainly  not,  if  you  wish  it,"  replied  the  lover  very 
blandly;  "I  mean,  not  at  present;  but  allow  me  to  hope  that  the 
time  will  come,  when  you  —  when  I  —  that  is  to  say,  when  both  of 
us " 

Tom  stopped,  for  Gertrude  had  risen,  and  had  taken  a  step  toward 
the  door,  with  much  appearance  of  agitation. 

"  I  foar  you  do  not  understand  me,"  he  said  hastily. 

"I  fear  I  do,"  she  replied  quickly  and  sensibly,  "although  it  is 
rather  your  manner  than  your  words  which  express  your  meaning." 

"  Stay,  then,  and  be  assured  that  I  am  quite  in  earnest." 

"  I  do  not  question  your  sincerity,  Mr.  Vrail 

"  That  I  have  come  here  to  offer  you  this  hand,"  he  continued, 
extending  certainly  a  very  clean  one,  which  bore  evident  marks  of 
recent  scrubbing  for  its  present  service,  but  which  the  heiress 
exhibited  no  haste  to  accept. 

She  had  attained  sufficient  proximity  to  the  door  to  feel  certain 
that  her  retreat  could  not  be  cut  off,  and  her  self-possession  having  in 
some  degree  returned,  she  listened  respectfully,  and  replied  politely, 
although  with  a  tone  of  sadness. 

"  I  will  spare  you  any  further  avowal  of  your  feelings,  Mr.  Vrail," 
she  began. 

"  Do  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  dear  Gertrude,"  he  replied,  still 
unawakened  from  his  hallucination,  "  I  am  proud  to  make  profession 
of  my  love  for  you." 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me  a  moment  before  I  go  ?" 

"An  hour !  a  week  !  nay,  for  ever  !" 

"  I  shall  not  detain  you  a  minute." 

"  I  assure  you  I  an^  in  no  hurry  !" 

'■'lam.  You  are  laboring  under  a  mistake.  We  are  nearly 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  you  have  scarcely  the  right  to  address 
aie  in  the  way  you  have  done ;  but  if  it  were  othi-rwiso  I  have  only 


A    DUTCH    BELLE.  28t 

to  answer  by  declining  your  offer,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the  hand  and 
arm  which  had  remained  projecting  like  a  •  pump-handle  all  this 
while,  with  the  evident  expectation  on  the  part  of  Thomas,  whose 
whole  attitude  was  quite  theatrical,  that  it  was  speedily  to  be  seized 
and  clung  to. 

He  now  began  to  look  astonished  and  alarmed,  but  he  immedi- 
ately rallied. 

"  Oh  !  I  see  how  it  is  !"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  been  rather  abrupt,  I 
dare  say ;  but  we  will  become  better  acquainted.  I  will  call  often  to 
see  you,  and  then  —  why,  Miss  Van  Kleeck  —  do  rCt  go .'" 

Getty  had  now  become  angry.  She  left  the  room  and  her  aston- 
ished lover,  but  paused  a  moment  outside  the  door,  and  said,  with  a 
very  pretty  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  a  very  bright  sparkling  in  her  eye  : 

"  Call  as  often  as  you  choose,  Mr.  Vrail,  but  I  shall  never  see 
you.  You  do  not  §eem  to  understand  the  plainest  words,  but  I 
assure  you  we  shall  never  be  better  acquainted  with  each  other  than 
we  are  now.     Good  evening." 

So  saying,  Getty  almost  ran  out  of  the  outer  room,  shutting  the 
door  after  her  with  a  haste  which  gave  it  quite  the  character  of  a 
slam,  and  hurried  up  to  her  own  apartment. 

Tom's  panoply  of  conceit,  which  was  almost  invulnerable,  and 
had  withstood  so  much,  only  now  gave  way. 

"  I  really  believe  she  means  to  refuse  me,"  he  said,  soliloquising. 
"  It  is  certainly  very  ridiculous ;  but  perhaps  she  may  come  back. 
I  will  wait  a  little." 

He  did  wait  some  minutes,  listening  earnestly,  and  was  at  length 
gratified  by  the  sound  of  approaching  steps,  which  he  advanced  to 
meet  with  great  alacrity  ;  but  what  was  his  consternation  on  encouu 
tering  at  the  door  the  wrinkled  and  vinegary  countenance  of  Dame 
Becky,  whose  huge  spectacles,  as  she  stood  confronting  him  a  moment 
in  silence,  glowered  upon  liim  like  the  eyes  of  the  great  horned  owl. 

The  lover  retreated  a  step  before  this  apparition. 

"  Do  you  want  Getty  ?"  she  said,  at  length,  in  a  voice  amazingly 
slirill  and  sharp. 

"I  —  yes,  I  should  be  happy  to  see  her  a  few  minutes  if — 
if  you  please."  , 


288  THE   ATLANTIC   SOUVEXrS. 

"  But  do  you  want  her  ?  Do  you  want  to  marry  her  1"  she  asked, 
in  still  more  of  a  scolding  tone. 

"  Oh  !  —  ah !  —  yes,  madam,"  said  Tom,  attempting  to  win  the  old 
woman  by  a  fine  speech ;  "  I  am  exceedingly  proud  to  call  myself  an 
admirer  of  your  beautiful  niece ;  and  I  have  indulged  the  hope  that 
we  might  find  our  tastes  congenial  to  each  other,  and  our  hearts  sym- 
pathetic. May  I  count,  dear  madam,  on  your  influence  with  Miss 
Gertrude  ?" 

"  No,  you  can 't ;  and  more  than  that,  you  can 't  have  her.  So, 
no  more  of  that.     You  are  the  third  this  week  !" 

"  Good  gracious  !  the  third  what,  ma'am  ?" 

"  No  matter  what ;  you  can 't  have  her.  You  understand,  do  n't 
ydu?" 

"  Y  —  yes,"  said  Tom,  "I  suppose  I  do." 

"  Very  well,  then  —  no  oflTense  meant,"  said  Aunt  Becky,  now 
trying  to  modify  what  might  seem  harsh  in  her  language,  by  a  touch 
of  politeness,  but  who  still  spoke  in  the  same  high  key.  "  Wo  n't 
you  sit  down  V 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  muttered  Tom,  now  decidedly  crest-fallen  ; 
*'  I  rather  think  it  is  time  for  me  to  go." 

*'  Good  night,  then,"  said  Becky,  following  him  to  the  door,  as 
closely  as  if  he  had  been  a  burglar.     "  Take  care  of  the  dog .'" 

"The  deuce!"  said  Tom  to  himself,  clutching  his  cane  as  he 
walked  off  the  stoop.  "  Is  there  a  dog  to  be  escaped  too  1  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  they  should  set  him  on  me !"  and  he  quickened  his  step 
down  the  lane  that  led  to  the  highway,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight 
of  the  old  farm-house,  without  even  turning  to  take  a  last  look  at 
the  solitary  light  which  gleamed  like  a  beacon  from  Getty's  room. 
Alas !  alas !  no  beacon  of  hope  for  him ! 


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